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Emnrg Hmwrattg 

Akin iFuni 

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ArrrBBtntt No. 

Emnrg Itttueratig, C5a. 




O R M O N D, 




Author of Comic Dramas, Tales 0/ Fashionable Life, 
Sfc. Sfc. 






I^v^nav Printer. Biidge-street, Btockfriars, Londbfti 



AFTER having lived so long- in retire- 
ment, our young- hero, when he was to go 
into company again, had many fears, that 
his manners would appear rustic and un- 
fashioned. With all these apprehen- 
sions as to his manners, there was mixed 
a large proportion of pride of character, 
which tended rather to encrease than 
to diminish his apparent timidity. He 
dreaded that people should value him, 
or think that he valued himself, for his 
newly acquired fortune, instead of his 
good qualities — he feared that he should 



be flattered— and he feared that he 
should like flattery. — In the midst of all 
these various and contradictory appre- 
hensions, he would perhaps have been 
awkward and miserable, had he been 
introduced into society by one who had 
less knowledge of the world, or less 
knowledge of the human, heart than Sit 
Ulick O' Shane possessed. Sir Ulick 
treated him as if he had always lived 
in good company. Without presupposing 
any ignorance or any difficulty, he 
at the same time always took care 
to warn him of any etiquette, or of any 
modern fashion, so that no one should 
perceive the warning but themselves. 
— He never hurt Ormond's pride by 
seeming to patronise or produce him, nor 
did he ever let his timidity suffer from 
uncertainty or neglect. — Ormond's for- 
tune was never adverted to, in any way 
that could hurt his desire to be valued 
for his own sake — but he was made to 
feel, that it was a part, and a very agree- 


able part of his personal merit. Ma- 
naged in this kind and skilful manner, 
he became perfectly at ease and happy. 
— His spirits rose, and he enjoyed every 
thing with the warmth of youth, and 
with the enthusiasm of his natural cha- 

The first evening that " the earthly 
Paradise" of Castle Hermitage re- 
opened upon his view, he was present- 
ed to all the well dressed, well bred 
belles. Black, brown, and fair for 
the first hour appeared to him all beau- 
tiful. His guardian standing apart, 
and seeming to listen to a castle secre- 
tary, who was whispering to him of state 
affairs, observed all that was passing. 

Contrary to his guardian's expecta- 
tions, however, Ormond was the next 
morning faithful to his resolution, and 
did not appear among the angels at 
the breakfast table at Castle Hermitage. 
" It won't last a good week," said Sir 
Ulick to himself. But that good week, 
B 2 


and the next it lasted— Harry's studies 
to be sure were sometimes interrupted 
by floating- visions of the Miss Darrells, 
Dartfords, and Lardners. He every 
now and then sung bits of their songs, 
repeated their bon mots, and from time 
to time laid down his book, started up 
and practised quadrille steps to refresh 
himself, and encrease his attention. His 
representations of all he saw and heard 
at Castle Hermitage, and his frank and 
natural description of the impression, 
that every thing and every body made 
upon him, were amusing and interesting 
to his friends at Vicar's Vale. — It was 
not by satire, that he amused them, but 
by simplicity mixed with humour and 
good sense — Good sense sometimes half 
opening his eyes, and humour describing 
what he saw with those eyes, half open, 
half shut. 

" Pray what sort of people are the 
Darrells and Dartfords?" sa id Mrs. 


" Oh delightful ! the girls especially — 
sing like angels." 

" Well, the women 1 know are all 
angels with you at present — that you 
have told us several times." 

ct It's really true, I believe — at least 
as far as I can see — but you know I have 
not had time to see farther than the out- 
side yet." 

" The gentlemen, however, I sup- 
pose you have seen the inside of some of 
them ?" 

" Certainly — those who have any 
thing inside of them — Dartford for in- 

*' Well, Mr. Dartford, he is the man 
Sir Ulick said was so clever." 

" Very clever — he is — I suppose, 
though 1 don't really recollect any thing 
remarkable that I heard him sav. But 
the wit must be in him — and he lets out 
a good deal of his opinions — of his 
opinion of himself — a little too much. 
— But he is much admired." 


" And Mr. Darrell— what of him ?" 

" Very fashionable — But indeed all I 
know about him is, that his dress is quite 
the thing, and that he knows more about 
dishes and cooks, than I could have con- 
ceived any man upon earth of his age 
could know — But they say it's the 
fashion — He is very fashionable, I hear." 

" But is he conceited ?" 

" Why ! — I do not know — his manner 
might appear a little conceited — but in 
reality he must be wonderfully humble 
— for he certainly values his horses far 
above himself — and then he is quite con- 
tent if his boot tops are admired — By 
the by, there is a famous invaluable re- 
ceipt he has for polishing those boot tops, 
which is to make quite another man of 
me — if I don't forget to put him in mind 
about it." 

" And Mr. Lardner?" 

" Oh a pleasant young man! has so 
many good songs, and good stories, and 
is so good natured in repeating them. 


— But I hope people won't make him re- 
peat them too often, for I can conceive 
one might he tired — in time." 

Daring 1 the course of the first three 
weeks Harry was three times in immi- 
nent danger of falling in love, — first, 
with the beautiful, and beautifully 
dressed Miss Darrell, who danced, sung-, 
played, rode, did every thing charm- 
ingly, and was universally admired. She 
was remarkably good humoured, even 
when some of her companions were, 
rather cross. Miss Darrell reigned queen 
of the day, and queen of the ball, for 
three days and three nights, in our young 
hero's eyes, unrivalled ; but on the fourth 
night, Ormond chancing to praise the 
fine shape of one of her very dear friends, 
Miss Darrell whispered, " she owes that 
fine shape to a finely padded corset. Oh 
1 am clear of what I tell you, she is my 
intimate friend.'* 

From that moment Ormond was cured 
of all desire to be the intimate friend of 


this fair lady. The second peerless dam- 
sel, whose praises he sounded to «Dr. 
Cambray between the fits of reading 
Middleton's Cicero, was Miss Eliza Dar- 
rell, the youngest of the three sisters ; 
she was not yet come out, but was in 
the mean time allowed to appear at 
Castle Hermitage, and was so naive, 
and so timid, and so very bashful, that 
Sir Ulick was forced always to bring- her 
into the room leaning on his arm ; — she 
could really hardly walk into a room, — 
and if any body looked at her, she was 
so much distressed — and there were such 
pretty confusions and retreatings, and 
such a manoeuvring to get to the side table 
every day, and " Sir Ulick so terribly 
determined it should not be." — It was 
all naturally acted, and by a young 
pretty actress ; Ormond, used only to 
the gross affectation of Dora, did not, 
good easy man, suspect that there was 
any affectation in the case. — He pitied 
her so much, that Sir Ulick was cer- 

ORMONl>. 9 

tain ** Jove was in the next degree."— 
Of this the young lady herself was still 
more secure ; — and in her security she 
forgot some of her graceful timidity.—*- 
It happened, that in standing up for 
country dances one night, some dispute 
about precedency occurred. Miss Eliza 
Darrell was the honourable Miss Darrell 
— and some young lady, who was not 
honourable, in contempt, defiance, neg- 
lect, or ignorance, stood above her. The 
timid Eliza remonstrated in no very 
gentle voice, and the colour came into 
her face — the eloquent blood spoke too 
plainly.— She! — the gentle Eliza ! push- 
ed for her place, and with her honourable 
elbows made way for herself— for what 
will not even well-bred belles do in a 
crowd? — Unfortunately, well-bred beaux 
are bound to support them. — Onnond 
was on the point of being drawn into a 
quarrel with the partner of the on'ending 
party, when Sir Ulii-k appearing in the 
midst, and not seeming to know that 
B 3 


any thing was going wrong, broke up 
the intended set of country dances, by 
insisting upon it, that the Miss Darrells 
had promised him a quadrille, and that 
they must dance it for him, as there was 
but just time before supper. Harry, who 
had seen how little his safety was in the 
eye of the gentle Eliza, in comparison 
with the most trifling point of her of- 
fended pride, was determined in future, 
not to expose himself to similar danger. 

The next young lady who took his 
fancy, was of course as unlike the last 
as possible. — She was one of the remark- 
ably pleasant, sprightly, clever, most 
agreeable Miss Lardners. — She did not 
interest him much, but she amused him 
exceedingly. Her sister had one day 
said to her, " Anne, you can't be pretty, 
so you had better be odd." — Anne took 
the advice, set up for being odd, and suc- 
ceeded. — She was a mimic, a wit, and 
very satirical 3 as long as the satire touch- 
ed only those he did not care for, it ex- 

ORMOND. 1 1 

tremely diverted Ormond. He did not 
think it quite feminine or amiable, but 
still it was entertaining. There was also 
something flattering in being- exempted 
from this general reprobation and ridi- 
cule : Miss Lardner was intolerant of all 
insipid people-— fiats, as she called them. 
How far Ormond might have been drawn 
on by this laughing, talking, satirical, flat- 
tering wit, there is no saying, but luckily 
they fell out one evening about old Lady 
Annaly. Miss Lardner was not aware that 
Ormond knew, much less could she have 
conceived that he liked her ladyship. 
Miss Lardner was mimicking' her, for 
the amusement of a set of young ladies, 
who were standing round the fire after 
dinner, when Harry Ormond came in, 
who was not quite as much diverted as 
was expected. 

" Mr. Ormond does not know the 
original, the copy is lost upon him," said 
Miss Lardner j " and happy it is for you," 
continued she, turning to him, " that you 


do not know her, for Lady Annaly is as 
stiff and tiresome an original as ever 
was seen or heard of; — and the worst of 
it is, she is an original without origin- 

'♦ Lady Annaly !" cried Ormond, with 
surprise, " sure not the Lady Annaly I 

" There's but one that I know of — 
Heaven forbid that there were two. — But 
1 beg your pardon, Mr. Ormond, if she is a 
friend of yours — I humbly beg your for- 
giveness— 1 did not know your taste was so 
very good! — Lady Annaly is a ti ne old lady, 
certainly — vastly respectable : — and 1 so 
far agree with Mr. Ormond, that of the 
two paragons, mother and daughter, I 
prefer the mother. Paragons in their 
teens are insufferable: — patterns of per- 
fection are good for nothing in society, 
except to be torn to pieces." 

Miss Lardner pursued this diversion of 
tearing them to pieces, still flattering her- 
self, that her present wit and drollery 


would prevail with Ormond, as she had 
found it prevail with most people against 
an absent friend. Bat Ormond thought 
upon this occasion she shewed more flip- 
pancy than wit, and more ill-nature than 
humour. He was shocked at the want 
of feeling and reverence for age, with 
which she, a young gill just entering into 
the world, spoke of a person of Lady 
Annaly's years and high character. In 
the heat of attack, and in her eagerness 
to carry her point against the Annalys, 
the young lady, according to custom, pro- 
ceeded from sarcasm to scandal. Every 
ill-natured report she had ever heard 
against any of the family, she now re- 
peated with exaggeration and assevera- 
tions, vehement in proportion to the 
weakness of proof. She asserted, that 
Lady Annaly, with all her high charac- 
ter, was very hard-hearted to some of 
her nearest family connexions. — Sweet 
Lady Millicent! — Oh! how barbarously 
she used her !— Miss Annaly too Misg 


Lardner attacked, as a cold-blooded jilt. 
If the truth must be told, she had actually 
broken the heart of a young nobleman, 
who was fool enough to be taken in by 
her sort of manner — and the son, the 
famous Sir Herbert Annaly ! he was an 
absolute miser ; — Miss Lardner declared, 
that she knew from the best authority 
most shameful instances of his shabbi- 

The instances were stated, but Ormond 
could not believe these stories ; and 
what was more, he began to doubt the 
good faith of the person by whom they 
were related. He suspected, that she 
uttered these slanders knowing them to 
be false. 

Miss Lardner observing that Ormond 
made no further defence, but now stood 
silent, and with downcast eyes, flattered 
herself that she had completely triumph- 
ed. Changing the subject, she would 
have resumed with him her familiar, 
playful tone, but all chance of her ever 



triumphing over Ormond's head or heart 
were now at an end. So finished the 
third of his three weeks Ja?wies ; — such 
evanescent fancies it would not have been 
worth while mentioning, but for the effect 
produced on his mind ; though they left 
scarce any individual traces, they made a 
general and useful impression. They pro- 
duced a permanent contempt for scandal, 
that common vice of idle society. He 
determined to guard against it cautious- 
ly himself; and ever after, when he saw 
a disposition to it in any woman, how- 
ever highly bred, highly accomplished, 
or highly gifted, he considered her as a 
person of mean mind, with whom he 
could never form any connexion of friendV 
ship or love. 

The Lardners, Darrells, Dartfords, 
vanished, and new figures were to ap- 
pear in the magic lantern of Castle Her- 
mitage. Sir Ulick thought a few pre- 
liminary observations necessary to his 
ward. His opinion of Ormond's capacity 


and steadiness had considerably dimi- 
nished, in consequence of Harry's various 
mistakes of character, and sidden changes 
of opinion ; but Sir Ulick, with all his 
abilities, did not discriminate between 
want of understanding, ami want of prac- 
tice. Besides, he did not see the whole: 
he saw the outward boyish folly — he did 
not see the inward manly sense; he judged 
Ormond by a false standard, by compa- 
rison with the young- men of the world 
of his own age. He knew that none of 
these, even of moderate capacity, could 
have been three times in three weeks so 
near being taken in — not one would have 
made the sort of blunders, much less 
would any one, having* made them, have 
acknowledged them as frankly as Ormond 
did. It was this imprudent candour, which 
lowered him most in his guardian's esti- 
mation. From not having lived in so- 
ciety, Harry was not aware of the signs 
and tokens of folly or wisdom by which 
the world j <dge; the opinion of the by- 


standers had not habitual power over him. 
While the worldly young" men guarded 
themselves with circumspect self-love 
against every external appearance of 
folly, Harry was completely unguarded ; 
they lived cheaply upon borrowed wis 
dom; he profited dearly, but perma- 
nently, by his own experience. 

" My dear boy," said Sir Ulick, " are 
you aware that his Excellency the Lord 
Lieutenant is coming to Castle Hermitage 

" Yes, Sir j so I heard you say," re- 
plied Harry. " What sort of a man is 
he ?" 

" Man!" repeated Sir Ulick, smiling. 
"In the first place, he is a very great 
man, and may be of great service to you." 
" How so, Sir, I don't want any thing 
from him. Now [ have a good fortune 
ot my own, what can I want from any 
man — or if I must not say man, any great 
man ?" 

" My dear Harry, though a man's 


fortune is good, it may be better for 
pushing it." 

" And worse, may not it, Sir? Did 
not I hear you telling last night of Lord 
somebody, who had been pushing his 
fortune all his life, and died pennyless." 

" True, because he pushed ill; if he 
had pushed well, he would have got into 
a good place." 

" I thank Heaven, I can get that now 
without any pushing." 

" You can ! — yes, by my interest per- 
haps you mean." 

" No; by my own money I mean." 

" Bribery and corruption ! Harry, 
places are not in this country to be 
bought — openly — These are things one 
must not talk of; and pray, with your 
own money — if you could — what place 
upon earth would you purchase ?" 

" The only place in the world I should 
wish for, Sir, would be a place in the 

Sir Ulick was surprised and alarmed; 


but said not a word that could betray 
his feelings. 

" A place of my own," continued 
Ormond, " a comfortable house and 
estate, on which I could live indepen- 
dently and happy, with some charming- 
amiable woman." 

" Darrell, Dartford, Lardner, which?" 
said Sir Ulick, with a sarcastic smile. 

" 1 am cured of those foolish fancies, 

" Well, there is another more dan- 
gerous might seize you, against which I 
must warn you, and I trust one word of 
advice you will not take amiss." 

" Sir, I am very much obliged to you; 
how could I take advice from you as any 
thing but a proof of friendship ?" 

" Then, my dear boy, I must tell you, 
tn confidence, what you will find out the 
first night you are in his company, that 
his Excellency drinks hard." 

t( No danger of my following his ex- 
ample," said Harry. " Thank you, Sir, 


for the warning ; but I am sure enough 
of myself on this point, because I have 
been tried — and when I would not drink 
to please my own dear king Corny, not 
much danger of my drinking to please a 
Lord Lieutenant, who, after all, is nothing 
to me." 

" After all," said Sir Ulick ; « but 
you are not come to after all yet — you 
know nothing about his Excellency yet." 

" Nothing but what you told me, Sir; 
if he drinks hard, I think he sets no very 
good example as a Lord Lieutenant of 

" What oft was thought, perhaps, but 
ne'er so bluntly expressed," said Sir 

Sir Ulick was afterwards surprised to 
see the firmness with which his ward, 
when in company with persons of the first 
rank and fashion, resisted the combined 
force of example, importunity, and ridi- 
cule. Dr. Cambray was pleased, but not 
surprised; for he had seen in his young 


friend other instances of this adherence 
to whatever he had once been convinced 
was right. Resolution is a quality or 
power of mind totally independent of 
knowledge of the world. The habit 
of self-control can be acquired by any 
individual, in any situation. Ormond had 
practised and strengthened it even in the 
retirement of the Black Islands. 

Other and far more dangerous trials 
were now preparing for him ; but before 
we go on to these, it may be expected 
that we should not pass over in silence 
the vice-regal visit, and yet what can 
we say about it : all that Ormond could 
say was, that " he supposed it was a great 
honour, but it was no great pleasure." 
The mornings, two out of five, being very 
rainy, hung very heavy on hands in spite 
of the billiard-room. Fine weather, rid- 
ing, shooting, or boating, killed time 
well enough till dinner; and Harry, being 
a good sportsman and an excellent shot, 
said he liked this part of the business 

22 OllMONJ). 

exceedingly, till he found that some great 
men were very cross, if they did not shoot 
as many little birds as he did. Then came 
dinner, the great point of relief and re- 
union! — and there had been late dinners, 
and long dinners, and great dinners, fine 
plate, good dishes, plenty of wine, but a 
dearth of conversation — the natural topics 
chained up by etiquette. One half of the 
people at table were too prudent, the 
other half too stupid to talk. Sir Ulick 
talked awav indeed : but even he was not 
half so entertaining as usual, because he 
was forced to bring down his wit and 
humour to court quality. In short, till 
the company had drank a certain quantity 
of wine, nothing was said worth repeat- 
ing, and afterwards nothing repeatable. 

After the vice-regal rareeshow was 
over, and that the grand folk had been 
properly bowed into their carriages, and 
had fairly driven away, there was some 
diversion to be had. People without 
yawning seemed to recover from a dead 


sleep; the state of the atmosphere was 
changed. There Mas a happy thaw, the 
frozen words and bits and ends of con- 
versations were now heard repeated in 
delightful confusion. The men of wit, 
in revenge for their prudent silence, were 
now happy and noisy beyond measure. 
Ormond was much entertained ; now he 
had an opportunity of being not only 
amused but instructed by conversation, 
for all the great dealers in information, 
who had kept up their goods while there 
was no market, now that there was a de- 
mand, unpacked, and brought them out 
in profusion. There was such a rich 
supply, and such a quick and happy in- 
tercourse of wit and knowledge, as quite 
delighted, almost dazzled his eyes; but 
his eyes were strong. He had a mind 
untainted with envy, highly capable of 
emulation. Much was indeed beyond, 
or above, the reach of his present powers; 
but nothing was beyond his generous 
admiration — nothing above his future 

24 9 KMON1> ' 

hopes of attainment. The effect, and 
more than the effect, which Sir Ulick 
had foreseen, was produced on Ormond's 
mind by hearing the conversation of some 
of those who had distinguished themselves 
in political life; he caught their spirit — 
their ambition ; his wish was no longer 
merely to see the world, but to distin- 
guish himself in it. His guardian saw 
the noble ambition rising in his mind — 
Oh ! at that instant, how could he think 
of debasing it to servile purposes — of 
working this great power only for paltry 
party ends ? 



NEW circumstances arose, which un- 
expectedly changed the course of our 
hero's mind. There was a certain Lady 
Millicent, Lady Norton had read from 
her memorandum-book among the list 
of guests expected at Castle Hermitage. 
Sir Ulick, as Ormond recollected, had 
pronounced her to be a charming, ele- 
gant, fascinating creature. Sir Ulick's 
praise was sometimes exaggerated, and 
often lavished from party motives, or 
given half in jest and half in earnest, 
against his conscience. But when he did 
speak sincerely, no man's taste or judg- 
ment as to female beauty, manners, and 
character, could be more safely trusted. 
VOL. III. c 


He was sincere in all he said of Lady 
Millicent's appearance and manners, 
but as to the rest, he did not think him- 
self bound to tell all he knew about her. 

Her ladyship arrived at Castle Her- 
mitage. — Ormond saw her, and thought 
that his guardian had not in the least 
exaggerated as to her beauty, grace, or 

She was a very young widow, still in 
mourning for her husband, a gallant 
officer, who had fallen the preceding 
year at a siege in Flanders. 

Lady Millicent, as Lady Norton said, 
had not, and she feared never would, 
recover from the shock her health had 
received, at the time of her husband's 
death. This account interested Ormond 
exceedingly for the young widow. 

There was something peculiarly en- 
gaging in the pensive softness and mo- 
desty of her manner. It seemed free 
from affectation. Far from making any 
display of her feelings, she seemed as 


much as possible to repress them, — and 
to endeavour to be cheerful, that she 
might not damp the gaiety of others. 
Her natural disposition, as Lady Norton 
said, was very sprightly, and however 
passive and subdued she might appear at 
present, she was of a high independent 
spirit, that would, on any great occasion, 
think and act for itself. Better and 
better — Each trait suited Ormond's cha- 
racter more and more — His own ob- 
servation confirmed the high opinion, 
whieh the praises of her friend tended 
to inspire. Ormond was particularly 
pleased with the indulgent manner in 
which she spoke of her own sex ; Lady 
Millicent was free from that propensity 
to detraction, which had so disgusted 
him in his last love. Even of those by 
whom, as it had been hinted to him, she 
had been hardly treated, she spoke with 
gentleness and candour. Recollecting 
Miss Lardner's assertion, that " Lady 
Annaly had used Lady Millicent bar- 
c 2 


baronsly," he purposely mentioned Lady 
Annaly, to hear what she would say. — 
" Lady Annaly," said she, " is a most 
respectable woman — she has her preju- 
dices — who is there that has not ? — It is 
unfortunate for me, that she had been 
prepossessed against me. She is one of 
my nearest connexions by marriage — one 
to whom I might have looked in diffi- 
culty and distress; — one of the few per- 
sons whose assistance and interference I 
would willingly have accepted, and 
would even have stooped to ask, but 
unhappily — I can tell you no more/' 
said she, checking herself — " It is every 
way an unfortunate affair — and," added 
she, after a deep sigh, «* the most unfortu- 
nate part of it is, that it is my own fault." 
That Ormond could hardly believe ; 
and whether it were or not, whatever 
the unfortunate affair might be, the can- 
dour, the gentleness, with which she 
spoke, even when her feelings were ob- 
viously touched and warm, interested 


him deeply in her favour. He had 
heard that the Annalys were just re- 
turning to Ireland, and he determined to 
go as soon as possible to see them ; he 
hoped they would come to Castle Her- 
mitage — and that this coolness might be 
made up. Mean time the more he saw 
of Lady Millicent, the more he was 
charmed with her. Sir Ulick was much 
engaged with various business in the 
mornings, and Lady Norton, Lady Mil- 
licent, and Ormond spent their time to- 
gether — walking, driving in the socia- 
ble, or boating on the lake — they were 
continually together. Lady Norton, a 
very good kind of well bred little 
woman, was a non-entity in conversa- 
tion, but she never interrupted it, or laid 
the slightest restraint on any one by her 
presence, which, indeed, was usually 
forgotten by Ormond. Though Ormond 
did not yet even foresee the time in 
which he could venture to hope for him- 
self, yet his conversation with Lady 

30 OHMONi>. 

Millicent generally took a sentimental 
turn. She did not always speak sense, 
but she talked elegant nonsense with a 
sweet persuasive voice and eloquent eyes 
— hers was a kind of exalted sentimental 
morality, referring every thing to feel- 
ing, and to the notion of sacrifice, rather 
than to a sense of duty, principle, or rea- 
son. She was all for sensibility and 
enthusiasm — enthusiasm in particular — 
With her there was no virtue without 
it. — Acting from the hope of making 
yourself or others happy, or from any 
view of utility, was acting merely from 
low selfish motives. Her " point of 
virtue was so high, that ordinary mor- 
tals might well console themselves by 
perceiving the impossibility of ever 
reaching it." Exalted to the clouds, 
she managed matters as she pleased 
there, and made charming confusion. 
When she condescended to return to 
earth, and attempted to define — no, not 
to define — definitions were death to her 


imagination ! — but to describe her no- 
tions, she was nearly unintelligible. She 
declared, however, that she understood 
herself perfectly well ; and Ormond, de- 
ceived by eloquence, of which he was a 
passionate admirer, thought that he 
understood, when he only felt. Her 
ideas of virtue were carried to such ex- 
tremes, that they touched the opposite 
vices — in truth, there was nothing to 
prevent them j for the line between right 
and wrong — that line which should be 
strongly marked, was effaced ; so deli* 
cately had sentiment shaded off its boun- 
daries. These female metaphysics, this 
character of exalted imagination and 
sensitive softness, was not quite so cheap 
and common some years ago as it has 
lately become. The consequences to 
which it practically leads were not then 
fully foreseen and understood. At all 
times a man experienced in female cha- 
racter, who had any knowledge of the 
world, even supposing he had no skill in 


metaphysics, would easily have seen to 
what all this tends, and where it usually 
terminates ; and such a man would never 
have thought of marrying Lady Milli- 
cent. But Ormond was inexperienced ; 
the whole, matter and manner, was new 
to him ; he was struck with the delicacy 
and sensibility of the fair sophist, and 
with all that was ingenious and plausi- 
ble in the doctrine, instead of being 
alarmed by its dangerous tendency. It 
should be observed, in justice to Lady 
Millicent, that she was perfectly sin- 
cere, if we may use the expression of 
good faith in her absurdities. She did 
not use this sentimental sophistry, as it 
has since been too often employed by 
many, to veil from themselves the crimi- 
nality of passion, or to mask the de- 
formity of vice. There was, perhaps, 
the more immediate hazard of her erring 
from ignorance and rashness ; but there 
was in her youth and innocence a chance, 
that she should instinctively start back 


the moment she should see the preci- 

Sir Ulick O'Shane had often said, in 
speaking of Lady Millicent, that under 
the guidance of n. man of sense she 
would be one of the first women he ever 
saw — that a man who could once win 
Lady Millicent's affections, and who 
could not keep them, would deserve to 
be miserable. 

Ormond perfectly agreed with him. 
He knew that Sir Ulick saw the impres- 
sion Lady Millicent had made upon 
him, nor did he attempt or wish to con- 
ceal it — though it was not yet come to 
the time, when he could determine to 
speak of his sentiments. He was now 
too seriously in love to talk of it lightly, 
or to be as precipitate as he had been 
when he meant nothing in praising the 
Darrells, Lardners, &c. 

One evening Sir Ulick was talking of 
Lord Chesterfield's Letters, a book at 
that time much in vogue, but which the 



good sense and virtue of England soon 
cast into disrepute ; and which, in spite 
of the charms of wit and style, in spite 
of many sparkling and some valuable 
observations mixed with its corruption, 
has since sunk, fortunately for the nation, 
almost into oblivion — But when these 
private letters were first published, and 
when my lord, who now appears so stiff 
and awkward, was in the fashion of the 
day, there was no withstanding it. The 
book was a manual of education— with 
the vain hope of getting cheaply second- 
hand knowledge of the world, it was 
read universally by every young man 
entering life, from the nobleman's son, 
while his hair was powdering, to the 
prentice thumbing it surreptitiously be- 
hind the counter. — Sir Ulick O'Shane, 
of course, recommended it to his ward : 
to Lady Millicent's credit, she inveighed 
against it with honest indignation. 

" What!" said Sir Ulick, smiling 
" you are shocked at the idea of Lord 


Chesterfield's advising his pupil at Paris 
to prefer a reputable affair with a married 
woman to a disreputable intrigue with an 
opera girl — Well, I believe you are 
right as an English woman, my dear 
Lady Millicent ; and 1 am clear, at all 
events, you are right, as a woman, to 
blush so eloquently with virtuous indig- 
nation ; — Lady Annaly herself could not 
have spoken and looked the thing better." 

"So I was just thinking,'* said Or- 

" Only the. difference, Harry, between: 
a young and au elderly woman," said Sir 
Uiick, " Truths divine come mended 
from the lips, of youth and beauty." 

His compliment was lost upon Lady 
Millicent. At the first mention of Lady 
Annaly 's name she had sighed deeply, 
and had fallen into reverie — and Ormond, 
as he looked at her, fell into raptures at 
the tender expression of her countenance. 
Sir Ulick tapped him on the shoulder, 
and drawing him a little on one side— 


** Take care of your heart, young 
man," whispered he, " no serious attach- 
ment here — remember, I warn you." — 
Lady Norton joined them, and nothing 
more was said. 

" Take care of my heart," thought 
Ormond, " why should I guard it against 
such a woman, — what better can I do 
with it than offer it to such a woman." 

A thought had crossed Ormond's mind, 
which recurred at this instant. From 
the great admiration Sir Ulick expressed 
for Lady Millicent, and the constant at- 
tention, more than gallant, tender atten- 
tion Sir Ulick paid her, Ormond was 
persuaded, that but for that half of the 
broken chain of matrimony, which still 
encumbered him whom it could not bind, 
Sir Ulick would be very glad to offer 
Lady Millicent not only his heart but his 
hand. Suspecting this partiality, and 
imagining this jealousy, Ormond did not 
quite like to consult his guardian about 
his own sentiments and proceedings. — 


He wished previously to consult his im- 
partial and most safe friend, Dr. Cam- 
bray. But Dr. Cambray was absent 
from home ever since the arrival of Lady 
Millicent. The doctor and his family 
had been on a visit to a relation at a dis- 
tance. Ormond, impatient for their re- 
turn, had every day questioned the 
curate, and at last, in reply to his regu- 
lar question of " When do you expect the 
doctor, Sir ?" he heard the glad tidings 
of *« We expect him to-morrow, or next 
day, Sir, positively." 

The next day, Ormond, who was now 
master of a very elegant phaeton and beau- 
tiful grey horses, and, having for some 
time been under the tuition of that know- 
ing whip Tom Darrell, could now drive 
to admiration, prevailed upon Lady Mil- 
licent to trust herself with him in his 
phaeton — Sir Ulick came up just as Or- 
mond had handed Lady Millicent into the 
carriage, and, pressing on his ward's 
shoulder, said — 


" Have you the reins safe ?' 

« Yes." 

« That's well— remember now, Harry 
Ormond," said be, with a look which 
gave a double meaning to his words— 
" remember, I charge you, the warning 
I gave you last night— drive carefully— 
pray, young Sir, look before you— no 
rashness ! — young horses these," added 
he, patting the horses, " pray be care- 
ful, Harry." 

Ormond promised to be very careful, 
and drove off. 

" I suppose," thought he, " my guar- 
dian must have some good reason for this 
reiterated caution; I will not let her see 
my sentiments till I know, his reasons j — - 
besides, as Dr. Cambray returns to-mor- 
row, I can wait another day," 

Accordingly, though not without put* 
ting considerable restraint upon himself, 
Ormond talked of the beauties of nature, 
and of indifferent matters. The conver- 
sation rather flagged, and sometimes on 


her ladyship's side as well as on his. He 
fancied that she was more reserved than 
usual, and a little embarrassed. He ex- 
erted himself to entertain her; — that was 
but common civility ; — he succeeded, 
was pleased to see her spirits rise, and 
her embarrassment wear off. When she 
revived, her manner was this day so pe- 
culiarly engaging, and the tones of her 
voice so soft and winning, that it re- 
quired all Ormond's resolution to refrain 
from declaring his passion. Now, for 
the first time, he conceived a hope that 
he might make himself agreeable to her ; 
that he might, in time, soothe her grief, 
and restore her to happiness. Her ex- 
pressions were all delicately careful to 
imply nothing but friendship — but a 
woman's friendship insensibly leads to 
love. As they were returning home after 
a delightful drive, they entered upon this 
subject, so favourable to the nice casuistry 
of sentiment, and to the enthusiastic elo- 
quence of passion, — when, at an opening 


in the road, a carriage crossed them so 
suddenly, that Ormond had but just time 
to pull up his horses. 

" Dr. Cambray, I declare, the very 
man I wished to see." 

The doctor, whose countenance had 
been full of affectionate pleasure at the 
first sight of his young friend, changed 
when he saw who was in the phaeton with 
him. The doctor looked panic struck. 

" Lady Millicent — Doctor Cambray." 
Ormond began the introduction, but each 
bowing*, said, in a constrained voice — 

" I have the honour of knowing — " 

*' I have the pleasure of being ac- 
quainted — " 

The pleasure and honour seemed to be 
painful and embarrassing to both. 

" Don't let us detain you," said the 
doctor — " but I hope, Mr. Ormond, you 
will let me see you as soon as you can 
at Vicar's Vale?" 

" You would not doubt that, my dear 
doctor," said Ormond — ** If you knew 


how impatient I have been for your re- 
turn — I will be with you before you are 
all out of the carriage." 

" The sooner the better," — said the 

" The sooner the better," echoed the 
friendly voices of Mrs. Cambray and her 

Ormond drove on — but from this mo- 
ment, till they reached Castle Hermitage, 
no more agreeable conversation passed 
between him and his fair companion. It 
was all constrained. 

" I was not aware that Dr. Cambray 
had the honour of being acquainted with 
Lady MiHicent," said Ormond. 

" Oh! yes, I had the pleasure some 
time ago," replied Lady Millicent, " when 
he was in Dublin, not lately — I was a 
great favourite of his once." 

" Once, and always, I should have 

" Dr. Cambray's a most amiable, re- 
spectable man," said her ladyship ; " he 


must be a great acquisition in this neigh- 
bourhood — a good clergyman is always 
so valuable every where ; in Ireland most 
especially, where the spirit of conciliation 
is much wanted. 'Tis unknown how much 
a good clergyman may do in Ireland." 

" Very true — certainly." 

So, with a repetition of truisms, in- 
terspersed with reflections on the state 
of Ireland, tithes, and the education of 
the poor, they reached Castle Hermitage. 

" Lady Millicent, you look pale," said 
Sir Ulick, as he handed her out. 

" Oh ! no, 1 have had a most delight- 
ful drive." 

Harry just stayed to say that Dr. Cam- 
bray was returned, and that he must run 
to see him, and off he went. He found 
the doctor in his study. 

" Well, my dear doctor," said Or- 
mond, in breathless consternation — "what 
is the matter ?" 

" Nothing, I hope," said the doctor, 
looking earnestly in Ormond's face— 


*' and yet your countenance tells me, that 
my fears are well founded." 

" What is it you fear, Sir ?" 

" The lady who was in the phaeton 
with you, Lady Millicent, I fear — " 

" Why should you fear, Sir? — Oh! 
tell me at once, for you torture me — 
what do you know of her ?" 

" At once, then, I know her to be 
a very imprudent — though, I hope she is 
still an innocent woman." 

" Innocent !" repeated Ormond, " Good 
heavens, is it possible that there can 
be any doubt. Imprudent! My dear 
doctor, perhaps you have been misin- 

" All I know on the subject is this," 
said Dr. Cambray, " during Lord Milli- 
cent's absence in the army, a gentleman 
of high rank and gallantry paid assi- 
duous attention to Lady Millicent. Her 
relation and friend, Lady Annaly, advised 
her, to break off all intercourse with 
this gentleman in such a decided manner, 


as to silence scandal. Lady Millicent fol- 
lowed but half the advice of her friend ; 
she discountenanced the public atten- 
tions of her admirer, but she took op- 
portunities of meeting him at private par- 
ties; Lady Annaly again interfered — 
Lady Millicent was offended : but the 
death of her husband, at the siege of 
— , where he behaved most gal- 
lantly, saved her from further danger, 
and opened her eyes to the views of 
a man, who thought her no longer 
worthy his pursuit, when he might have 
her for life." 

Ormond saw that there was no resource 
for him, but immediately to quit Castle 
Hermitage ; therefore, the moment he 
returned, he informed Sir Ulick of his 
determination, pointing out to him the 
impropriety of his remaining in the 
society of Lady Millicent, when his 
opinion of her character, and the sen- 
timents which had so strongly influenced 
his behaviour, were irrevocably changed. 


— This was an unexpected blow upon 
Sir Ulick; he had his private reasons 
for wishing to detain Ormond at Cas- 
tle Hermitage till he was of age, to 
dissipate his mind by amusement and 
variety, and to obtain over it an ha- 
bitual guidance. 

Ormond proposed immediately to vi- 
sit the continent j by the time he should 
arrive at Paris, Dora would be settled 
there, and he should be introduced into 
the best company. The subtle Sir 
Ulick, perceiving that Ormond must 
change his quarters, suggested to him 
the propriety of seeing something of 
his own country before he went abroad, 
and in the course of a few days, va- 
rious letters of recommendation were 
procured for Ormond from Sir Ulick 
and his connexions; and, what was 
of still more consequence, from Dr. Cam- 
bray and his friends. 

During this interval, Ormond once 

more visited the Black Islands ; the 


scenes of his early youth recalled to 
Orraond a thousand tender, and a few 
embittering, recollections. He was 
greeted with heartfelt affection by 
many of the inhabitants of the island, 
with whom he had past some of his 
boyish days. Of some scenes he had 
to be ashamed ; of others he was justly 
proud; and, from every tongue, he 
heard the delightful praises of his de- 
parted friend and benefactor. 

His little farm had been well ma- 
naged during his absence, the trees he 
had planted began to make some ap- 
pearance; and, upon the whole, his vi- 
sit to the Black Islands revived the 
generous feelings of his youth, and re- 
freshed those traces of early virtue, which 
had been engraven on his heart. 

At his return to Castle Hermitage, 
he found every thing prepared for his 
departure; and, upon visiting his excel- 
lent friend at the vicarage, he found 
the whole family heartily interested in his 


welfare, and ready to assist him by let- 
ters of introduction to the best people 
in every part of Ireland, which Ormond 
intended to visit. 




DURING the course of Ormond's 
tour through Ireland, he frequently 
found himself in company with those 
who knew the history of public affairs 
for years past, and were but too well 
acquainted with the political profligacy 
and shameful jobbing of Sir Ulick 

Some of these gentlemen, knowing 
Mr. Ornond to be his ward, refrained, 
of course, from touching upon any sub- 
ject relative to Sir Ulick, and when 
Orraond mentioned him, evaded the 
conversation, or agreed in general terms 
in praising his abilities, wit, and ad- 
dress. But, after a day or two's jour- 


ney from Castle Hermitage, when he 
had got beyond his own and the ad- 
joining* counties — when he went into 
company with those who happened to 
know nothing 1 of his connexion with 
Sir Ulick O'Shane, then he heard him 
spoken of in a very different manner. 
— He was quite astonished and dismay- 
ed by the general abuse, as he thought 
it, which was poured upon him. 

" Well ! every man of abilities ex- 
cites envy — every man who takes a part 
in politics, especially in times when 
parties run high, must expect to be 
abused ; they must bear it, and their 
friends must learn to bear it for them." 

Such were the reflections, with-which 
Ormond at first comforted himself. As 
far as party abuse went, this was quite 
satisfactory ; even facts, or what are 
told as facts, are so altered by the man- 
ner of seeing them by an opposite 
party, that, without meaning to traduce, 
they calumniate. — Ormond entrenched 

VOL. 111. D 


himself in total disbelief, and cool as- 
sertion of his disbelief, of a variety of 
anecdotes he continually heard discre- 
ditable to Sir Ulick. Still he expected, 
that when he went into other company, 
and met with men of Sir Ulick's own 
party, he should obtain proofs of the 
falsehood of these stories, and by that 
he might he able, not only to contra- 
dict, but to confute them. People, how- 
ever, only smiled, and told him that he 
had better inquire no further, if he ex- 
pected to find Sir Ulick an immacu- 
late character. Those who liked him 
best, laughed off the notorious instances 
of his public defection of principle, and 
of his private jobbing, as good jokes ; 
proofs of his knowledge of the world, 
-—his address, his frankness, his being 
** not a bit of a hypocrite." But even 
those who professed to like him best, 
and to be least scrupulous with regard 
to public virtue, still spoke with a sort 
of facetious contempt of Sir Ulick as 


a thorough going friend of the powers 
that be — as a hack of administration — 
as a man who knew well enough what 
he was about. Ormond was continually 
either surprised or hurt by these insi- 

The concurrent testimony of numbers, 
who had no interest or prejudice to 
serve, operated by degrees upon him, 
so as to enforce conviction, and this 
was still more painful. 

Harry became so sore and irritable 
upon this subject, that he was now 
every day in danger of getting into 
some quarrel in defence of his guar- 
dian. Several times the master of the 
house prevented this, and brought him 
to reason, by representing that the per- 
sons who talked of Sir Ulick were quite 
ignorant of his connexion with him 
spoke only according to general opi- 
nion, and to the best of their belief, 
of a public character who was fair game. 
It was at that time much the fashion 

d 2 


among - a certain set in Dublin to try 
their wit upon each other in political 
and poetical squibs : — the more severe, 
the more bitter these were, the more 
they were admired ; the talent for in- 
vective was in the highest demand at 
this period in Ireland, it was considered 
as the unequivocal proof of intellectual 
superiority. The display of it was ad- 
mired, as it could not be enjoyed with- 
out a double portion of that personal 
promptitude to give the satisfaction of 
a gentleman, on which the Irish pride 
themselves : the taste of the nation, both 
for oratory and manners, has become of 
late years so much more refined, that 
when any of the lampoons of that day 
are now recollected, people are sur- 
prised at the licence of abuse which 
was then tolerated, and even approved in 
fashionable society. Sir Ulick O'Shane, 
as a well known public character, had 
been the subject of a variety of puns, 
bon mots, songs, and epigrams, which 



had become so numerous as to be col- 
lected under the title of Ulysseana. — 
Upon the late separation of Sir Ulick 
and his lady, a new edition, with a ca- 
ricature frontispiece, had been published ; 
unfortunately for Ormond, this had just 
worked its way from Dublin to this part 
of the country. 

It happened one day, at a gentle- 
man's house, where this Ulysseana had 
not yet been seen, a lady, a visitor and 
a stranger, full of some of the lines 
which she had learned by heart, be- 
gan to repeat them for the amusement 
of the tea-table. Ladies do not always 
consider how much mischief they may 
do by such imprudence, nor how they 
may hazard valuable lives for the sake 
of producing a sensation by the repe- 
tition of a severe thing. Ormond came 
into the room after dinner, and with 
some other gentlemen gathered round 
the tea-table, while the lady was re- 
peating some extracts from the new 


edition of the Ulysseana. The master 
and mistress of the house made reiter- 
ated attempts to stop the lady, but she 
was too intent upon herself and her 
second-hand wit, to comprehend or take 
these hints, she went on reciting the 
following lines: 

To serve in Parliament the nation, 

Sir Ulick read his recantation : 

At first he joined the patriot throng, 

But soon perceiving he was wrong, 

He ratted to the courtier tribe, 

Bought by a title and a bribe ; 

But how that new found friend to bind 

With any oath — of any kind, 

Disturb'd the premier's wary mind. 

" Upon his faith. — Upon his word." 

Oh ! that, my friend, is too absurd. 

•• Upon his honour." — Quite a jest. 

■" Upon his conscience." — No such test, 

" By all he has on earth." — 'Tis gone. 

" By all his hopes ofheav'n:' — They're none. 

" How then secure him in our pay, 

He can't be trusted for a day ?" 

How ? — When you want the fellow's throat, 

Pay by the job, — you have his vote. 



Sir Ulick himself, had he been pre- 
sent, would have laughed off the epi- 
gram with the best grace imaginable, 
and so, in good policy, ought Ormond 
to have taken it. But he felt it loo 
much, and was not in the habit of laugh- 
ing when he was vexed. Most of the 
company, who knew any thing of his 
connexion with Sir Ulick, or who un- 
derstood the agonising looks of the 
master and mistress of the house, polite- 
ly refrained from smiles or applause ; 
but a cousin of the lady who repeated 
the lines, a. young man, who was one 
of the hateful tribe of quizzers, on pur- 
pose to try Ormond, praised the verses 
to the skies, and appealed to him for 
his opinion. 

" I can't admire them, Sir," replied 

" What fault can you find with them?'* 
said the young man, winking at the 

" 1 think them incorrect in the first 

•56 ORMOND. 

place, Sir," said Ormond, " and alto- 
gether I think them indifferent." 

" Well, at any rate they can't be 
called moderate" said the young 1 gen- 
tleman, " and as to incorrect, the sub- 
stance I fancy is correctly true." 

" Fancy, Sir! — It would be hard if 
character were to be at the mercy of 
fancy," cried Ormond, hastily, but check- 
ing- himself, he, in a mild tone, added, 
" before we go any further, Sir, I should 
inform you that I am a ward of Sir 
Ulick O'ShaneV 

" Oh, mercy !" exclaimed the lady, 
who had repeated the verses, " I am 
sure I did not know that, or I would 
never have said a word — I declare I 
beg your pardon, Sir." 

Ormond's bow and smile, spoke his 
perfect satisfaction with the lady's con- 
trition, and his desire to relieve her 
from further anxiety. So the matter 
might have happily ended, but her cou- 
sin, though he had begun merely with 


an intention to try Orinond's temper, 
now felt piqued by Harry's spirit, and 
thought it incumbent upon him to per- 
sist. Having drank enough to be ill 
humoured, he, in an aggravating and 
ill bred manner, replied — 

"Your being- Sir Ulick O'Shane's 
ward may make a difference in your 
feelings, Sir, but I don't see why it should 
make any in my opinion." 

" In the expression of that opinion at 
least, Sir, I think it ought." 

The master of the house now inter- 
fered, to explain and pacify, and Or- 
inond had presence of mind and com- 
mand enough over himself to say no more 
while the ladies were present; he sat 
down, and began talking about some 
trifle in a gay tone, but his flushed cheek, 
and altered manner, shewed that he 
was only repressing other feelings. — The 
carriages of the visitors were announced, 
and the strangers rose to depart. Or- 
mond accompanied the master of the 
d 3 

•58 ORMOND. 

house to hand the ladies to their car- 
riages. To mark his being 1 in perfect 
charity with the fair penitent, he shewed 
her particular attention, which quite 
touched her, and as he put her into 
her carriage, she, all the time, repeat- 
ed her apologies, declared it should be 
a lesson to her for life, and cordially 
shook hands with him at parting. For 
her sake, he wished that nothing more 
should be said on the subject. But, 
on his return to the hall, he found 
there the cousin, buttoning on his great 
coat, seeming loth to depart: still in ill 
humour, the gentleman said — 

" I hope you are ^satisfied with that 
lady's apologies, Mr. Ormond." 

" I am, Sir, perfectly." 

" That's lucky: for apologies are easier 
had from ladies than gentlemen, and 
become them better." 

*" I think it becomes a gentleman as 
well as a lady to make candid apolo- 
gies, where they are conscious of be- 


iug wrong — if there was no intention to 
give offence." 

" If is a great peace-maker. Sir, but 
£ scorn to take advantage of an if" 

" Am I to suppose then, Sir," said 
Ormond, " was your intention 
to offend me?" 

" Suppose what you please, Sir, I 
am not in the habit of explanation or 

"Then, Sir, the sooner we meet the 
better," said Ormonde 

In consequence Ormond applied to an 
officer present, whose conduct on the 
occasion had been perfectly gentleman-* 
like, to be his second.. Ormond felt 
that he had restrained- his ang«r suffi- 
ciently — he was now as firm as he had 
heen temperate. — -The parties met and^ 
fought : the man who deserved to have 
suffered,, by he chance of this rational 
mode of deciding right and wrong, es- 
caped unhurt ; Ormond received a wound > 
in, his arm.— It was only a flesh wound*— 


He was at the house of a very hospitable 
gentleman, whose family were kind to 
him : the inconvenience and pain were 
easily borne. In the opinion of all, in 
that part of the world, who knew the 
facts, he had conducted himself as well 
as the circumstances would permit ; and, 
as it was essential, not only to the cha- 
racter of a hero, but of a gentleman at 
that time in Ireland, to fight a duel, we 
may consider Ormond as fortunate in not 
having been in the wrong. He rose in 
favour with the ladies, and in credit 
with the gentlemen, and he heard no 
more of the Ulysseana ; but he was con- 
cerned to see paragraphs in all the Irish 
papers, about the duel that had been 

fought between M. N. Esq. jun. of , 

and H. O. Esq. in consequence of a 
dispute that arose about some satirical 
verses repeated by a lady on a certain 
well-known character nearly related to 
one of the parties. 
A flaming account of the duel followed, 


in which there was the usual newspa- 
per proportion of truth and falsehood : 
Ormond knew, and regretted that this 
paragraph must meet the eyes of his 
guardian; and still more he was sorry, 
that Dr. Cambray should see it. He 
knew the doctor's christian abhorrence of 
the system of duelling altogether ; and, 
by the statement in the papers, it appear- 
ed that that gallant youth, H. O. Esq., to 
whom the news-writer evidently wished 
to do honour, had been far more forward 
to provoke the fight, than he had been, or 
than he ought to have been : — his own 
plain statement of facts, which he wrote 
to Dr. Cambray, would have set every 
thing to rights, but his letter crossed the 
doctor's on the road. As he was now in 
a remote place, which the delightful mail 
coach roads had not then reached — where 
the post came in only three days in the 
week — and where the mail cart either 
broke down, lost a wheel, had a tired horse, 
was overturned or robbed, at an average 


once a fortnight ; our hero had nothin g 
for it but to take patience, and amuse 
himself by calculating dates and chances 
upon his restless sofa. — His taste for 
reading stood him in stead upon this 
occasion, and enabled him to pass agree- 
ably some of the hours of bodily confine- 
ment, which men, and young men ac- 
customed to a great deal of exercise^ 
liberty, and locomotion, generally find 
so intolerably irksome. At length his 
wound was well enough for him to travel 
. — letters for him arrived : a warm, affec- 
tionate one from his guardian; and one 
from Dr. Cambray, which relieved his 

" I must tell you, my dear young 
friend," said Doctor Cambray, " that 
while you have been defending Sir Ulicfc 
O'Shane's public character, (of which, 
by the by, you know nothing*) I have 
been defending your private character* 
of which I hope and believe I know 
something. The truth always is. known^. 


in lime, with regard to every character, 
and therefore, independently of other 
motives, moral and religious, it is more 
prudent to trust to time and truth for 
their defence, than to sword and pistol. 
I know you are impatient to hear what 
were the reports to your disadvantage, 
and from whom I had them. I had them 
from the Annalys, and they heard them 
in England, through various circuitous 
channels of female correspondents in 
Ireland. As far as we can trace them, 
we think thai they originated with your 
old friend Miss Black. The first account 
Lady Annaly heard of you after she 
went to England was, that you were 
living a most dissolute life in the Black 
Islands with king Corny, who was de- 
scribed to be a profligate rebel, and his 
companion, an excommunicated catholic 
priest. King, priest, and prince Harry, 
getting drunk together regularly every 
night of their lives. The next account 
which Lady Annaly received some months 


afterwards, in reply to inquiries she had 
made from her agent was, that it was 
impossible to know any thing for certain 
of Mr. Harry Ormond, as he always kept 
in the Black Islands. The report was, 
that he had lately seduced a girl of the 
name of Peggy Sheridan, a respectable 
gardener's daughter, who was going 
to be married to a man of the name of 
Moriarty Carroll, a person whom Mr. 
Ormond had formerly shot in some un- 
fortunate drunken quarrel. The match 
between her and Moriarty had been 
broken off in consequence. — The follow- 
ing year accounts were worse and worse. 
This Harry Ormond had gained the 
affections of his benefactor's daughter, 
who, as he had been warned by her fa- 
ther, was betrothed to another man. 
The young lady was afterwards, by her 
father's anger, and by Ormond's deser- 
tion of her, thrown into the arms of 
a French adventurer, whom Ormond 
brought in^o the house, under pretence 


of learning French from him. Imme- 
diately after the daughter's elopement 
with the French master, the poor father 
died suddenly, in some extraordinary 
manner, when out shooting with this 
Mr. Ormond, to whom a considerable 
landed property, and a large legacy in 
money, were, to every body's surprise, 
found to be left in a will which he pro- 
duced, and which the family did not 
think fit to dispute. There were strange 
circumstances told concerning the wake 
and burial, all tending to prove, that this 
Harry Ormond had lost all feeling.— 
Hints were further given, that he had 
renounced the Protestant religion, and 
had turned Catholic for the sake of ab- 

Many times during the perusal of this 
extravagant tissue of falsehoods, Ormond 
laid down and resumed the paper, un- 
able to refrain from exclamations of in- 
dignation and contempt ; — sometimes al- 
most laughing at the absurdity of the 


slander. " After this," thought he, " who 
can mind common reports : — and yet Dr. 
Cambray says, that these excited some 
prejudice against me in the mind of 
Lady Annaly. — With such a woman I 
should have thought it imposible. — Could 
she believe me capable of such crimes: — 
me, of whom she had once a good opi- 
nion? — me, in whose fate she said she 
was interested ?" 

He took Dr. Cambray's letter again, 
and read on ; he found that Lady Annaly 
had not credited these reports, as to the 
atrocious accusations j but they had so 
far operated, as to excite doubts and 
suspicions. In some of the circum- 
stances, there was a sufficient spice of 
truth to preserve the falsehood. For ex- 
ample, with regard both to Peggy She- 
ridan and Dora the truth had been plau- 
sibly mixed with falsehood. The story 
of Peggy Sheridan, Lady Annaly had 
some suspicion might be true. Her lady- 
ship, who had seen Moriarty's generous 


conduct to Ormond, was indignant at 
his ingratitude. She was a woman prompt 
to feel strong indignation against all that 
was base ; and, when her indignation was 
excited, sometimes was incapable of hear- 
ing; what was said on the other side of the 
question. Her daughter Florence, of a 
calmer temper and cooler judgment, usu- 
ally acted as moderator on these occasions. 
She could not believe that Harry Ormond 
had been guilty of faults, that were so 
opposite to the sort which they had seen 
in his disposition : — violence, not trea- 
chery, was his fault. But why, if there 
was nothing wrong, Lady Annaly urged 
—why did not he write to her, as she had 
requested he would, when his plans for 
his future life were decided? — She had 
told him, that her son might probably be 
able to assist him. — Why could not he 
write one line ? 

Ormond had heard that her son was 
•ill, and that her mind was so absorbed 
with anxiety, that he could not at 



first venture to intrude upon her with 
his selfish concerns. This was his first 
and best reason; but afterwards, to be 
sure, when he heard that the son was 
better, he might have written. — He wrote 
at that time such a sad scrawl of a hand, 
he was so little used to letter-writing, 
that he was ashamed to write. — Then it 
was too late after so long a silence, &c 
Foolish as these reasons were, they had, 
as we have said before, acted upon our 
young hero, and have, perhaps, in as 
important circumstances, prevented many 
young men from writing to friends able 
and willing to serve them. It was ra- 
ther fortunate for Ormond, that slander 
did not stop at the first plausible false- 
hoods j when the more atrocious charges 
came against him, Miss Annaly, who 
had never deserted his cause, declared 
her absolute disbelief. The discussions 
that went on between her and her mo- 
ther, kept alive their interest about this 
young man. He was likely to have been 


forgotten during- their anxiety in the 
son's illness ; but fresh reports had 
brought him to their recollection fre- 
quently ; and when their friend Dr. Cain- 
bray was appointed to the livingof Castle 
Hermitage, his evidence perfectly re- 
instated Harry in Lady Annaly's good 
opinion. — As if to make amends for the 
injustice she had done him by believing 
any part of the evil reports, she was 
now anxious to see him again. A few 
days after Dr. Cambray wrote, Ormond 
received a very polite and gratifying 
letter from Lady Annaly, requesting, that 
as " Annaly" lay in his route home- 
wards, he would spend a few days there, 
and give her an opportunity of making 
him acquainted with her son. It is 
scarcely necessary to say, that this in- 
vitation was eagerly accepted. 

70 ORMONl>. 


XI PON his arrival at Annaly, Ormond 
found that Dr. Cambray and all his fa- 
mily were there. 

" Yes, all your friends," said Lady 
Annaly, as Ormond looked round with 
pleasure, " all your friends, Mr. Ormond, 
you must allow me an old right to be of 
that number — and here is my son, who 
is as well inclined as I hope you feel, to 
pass over the intermediate formality of 
new acquaintanceship, and to become in- 
timate with you as soon as possible." 

Sir Herbert Annaly confirmed, T)y the 

polite cordiality of his manner, all that his 

mother promised, adding that their mutual 

friend Dr. Cambray had made him al- 



ready so fully acquainted with Mr. Or- 
mond, that though he had never had 
the pleasure of seeing him before, he 
could not consider him as a stranger. 

Florence Annaly was beautiful, but 
not one of those beauties who strike at 
first sight. Hers was a face, which 
neither challenged nor sued for admi- 
ration. There was no expression thrown 
into the eyes or the eyebrows, no habi- 
tual smile on the lips — the features were 
all in natural repose, the face never ex- 
pressed any thing but what the mind re- 
ally felt. — But if any just observation 
was made in Miss Annaly's company, 
any stroke of genius, that countenance 
instantly kindled into light and life \ and 
if any noble sentiment were expressed, 
if any generous action were related, then 
the soul within illumined the counte- 
nance with a ray divine. — When once 
Ormond had seen this, his eye returned 
in hopes or seeing it again — he had an 
indescribable interest and pleasure in 


studying a countenance, which seemed 
so true an index to a noble and cultivated 
mind, to a heait of delicate, but not 
morbid sensibility. — His manners and 
understanding- had been formed and im- 
proved, beyond what could have been 
expected from the few opportunities of 
improvement he had till lately enjoyed. — 
He was timid, however, in conversation 
with those of whose information and 
abilities he had a high opinion, so that 
at first he did not do himself justice; 
but in his timidity there was no awk- 
wardness ; it was joined with such firm- 
ness of principle, and such a resolute, 
manly character, that he was peculiarly 
engaging to women. 

During his first visit at Annaly, he 
pleased much, and was so much pleased 
with every individual of the family, with 
their manners, their conversation, their 
affection for each other, and altogether 
with their mode of living, that he de- 
clared to Dr. Cambray he never had 


been so happy in his whole existence. 
It* was a remarkable fact, however* 
that he spoke much more of Lady An- 
naly and Sir Herbert, than of Miss 

He had never before felt so very unwill- 
ing to leave any place, or so exceedingly 
anxious to be invited to repeat his visit. 
— He did receive the wished for invita- 
tion ; and it was given in such a manner 
as left him no doubt, that he might in- 
dulge his own ardent desire to return, 
and to cultivate the friendship of this fa- 
mily. His ardour for foreign travel, his 
desire to see more of the world, greatly 
abated, and before he reached Castle 
Hermitage, and by the time he saw his 
guardian, he had almost forgotten, that 
Sir Ulick had traced for him a course of 
travels through the British islands and 
the most polished parts of the Conti- 

He now told Sir Ulick, that it was so 
far advanced in the season, that he 

VOL. III. b 


thought it better to spend the winter in 

" In Dublin instead of London?" said 
Sir Ulick, smiling, " very patriotic, and 
very kind to me, for I am sure I am 
your first object — and depend upon it 
few people — ladies always excepted-^ 
will ever like your company better than 
I do." 

Then Sir Ulick went over rapidly 
every subject, and every person which 
could lead his ward further to explain 
his feelings ; but now, as usual, he wasted 
his address, for the ingenuous young 
man directly opened his whole heart to 


« I am impatient to tell you, Sir," 
said he, " how very kindly I was re- 
ceived by Lady Annaly." 

" She is very kind," said Sir Ulick — 
" I suppose, in general, you have found 
yourself pretty well received, wherever 
you have gone — not to flatter you too 
much on your mental or personal qualifi- 


cations, and no disparagement to Dr. 
Cambray's letters of introduction or my 
own, five or six thousand a year is, I 
have generally observed, a tolerably good 
passport into society, a sufficient passe- 

" Passe-partout! — not partout — not 
quite sufficient at Annaly, you cannot 
mean, Sir — " 

" Oh ! I cannot mean any thing, but 
that Annaly is altogether the eighth won- 
der of the world," said Sir Ulick, " and 
all the men and women in it, absolutely 
angels — perfect angels." 

" No, Sir, if you please, not perfect 
— for I have heard — though I own I 
never saw it, that perfection is always 
stupid — now certainly that the Annalys 
are not." 

" Well, well, they shall be as imper- 
fect as you like — any thing to please 


" But, Sir, you used to be so fond of 
the Annalys, I remember." 
e 2 


" True, and did I tell you that I have 
changed my opinion ?" 

" Your manner, though not your 
words, tells me so." 

" You mistake — the fact is — for I al- 
ways treat you, Harry, with perfect can- 
dour — I was hurt and vexed by their re- 
fusal of my son. — But, after all," added 
he with a deep sigh, " it was Marcus's 
own fault — he has been very dissipated. — 
Miss Annaly was right, and her mother 
quite right I own. — Lady Annaly is one 
of the most respectable women in lie- 
land — and Miss Annaly is a charming 
girl — I never saw any girl I should have 
liked so much for my daughter-in-law. 
— But Marcus and I don't always agree 
in our tastes — I don't think the refusal 
there was half as great a mortification 

and disappointment to him, as it was to 


" You delight me, dear Sir," cried 
Ormond, " for then I may feel secure, 
that if ever in future — I don't mean in 

OllMOND. 77 

the least that I have any present thought 
— it would be absurd — it would be ridi- 
culous — it would be quite improper — 
you know I was only there ten days. 
— But I mean if, in future, I should 
ever have any thoughts — any serious 
thoughts — " 

" Well, well," said Sir Ulick, laugh- 
ing at Ormond's hesitation and embar- 
rassment — " I can suppose that you will 
have thoughts of some kind or other, 
and serious thoughts in due course, but, 
as you justly observe, it would be quite 
ridiculous at present." 

" I beg your pardon, Sir," inter- 
rupted Harry, " but it would even at 
present be an inexpressible satisfaction to 
me to know, that if in future such a 
thing should occur, I should be secure 
in the first place of your approbation." 

" As to that, my dear boy," said Sir 
Ulick, " you know in a few clays you 
will be at years of discretion — my con- 
trol ceases." 


" Yes, Sir, — but not my anxiety for 
your approbation, and my deference for 
your opinion." 

" Then," said Sir Uliek, " and with- 
out circumlocution or nonsense, I tell 
you at once, Harry Ormond, Florence 
Annaly is the woman in the world I 
should like best to see your wife." 

" Thank you, Sir, for this explicit 
answer — I am sure towards me nothing 
can have been more candid and kind, 
than your whole conduct has ever been." 

" That's true, Harry !" exclaimed 
Sir Ulick — * f tell me about this duel — 
you have fought a duel in defence of my 
conduct and my character, I understand, 
since I saw you. — But, my dear fellow, 
though I am excessively obliged to you, 
I am exceedingly angry with you — 
how could you possibly be so hotheaded 
and silly as to take up any man for re- 
lishing the Ulysseana — bless ye, I relish 
it myself — I only laugh at such things- 
believe me, 'tis the best way." 


" I am sure of it, Sir, if one can; 
and, indeed, I have had pretty good 
proof, that one should despise reports 
and scandal of all kinds — easier for 
oneself sometimes, than for one's friends." 

" Yes, my dear Ormond, by the 
time you have been half as long living 
in the great and the political world, as 
I have been, you will be quite case- 
hardened, and will hear your friends 
abused, without feeling it in the least. 
— Believe me — I once was troubled with 
a great deal of susceptibility like yours 
— but after all, 'tis no bad thing for 
you to have fought a duel — a feather in 
your cap with the ladies, and a warning 
to all impertinent fellows to let you alone 
—but you were wounded, the newspaper 
said — I asked you where, three times in 
my letters, you never condescended to 
answer me — answer me now, I insist 
upon it." 

" In my arm, Sir— a slight scratch—" 
" Slight scratch or not, I must hear 


all about it — come tell me exactly how 
the thing began and ended — tell me all 
the rascals said of me — you won't ? Then 
I'll tell you, they said, * I am the great- 
est jobber in Ireland — that I do not mind 
how I throw away the public money — 
in short that I am a sad political pro- 
fligate.' — Well! well! I am sure after 
all, they did me the justice to acknow- 
ledge, that in private life no man's ho- 
nour is more to be depended on." 

" They did do you that justice, Sir," 
said Ormond, " but pray ask me no fur- 
ther questions — for frankly it is disa- 
greeable to me — and I will tell you no 

'< That's frank," said Sir Ulick, « and 
I as frankly assure you, I am perfectly 

" Then to return to the Annalys," 
said Ormond, " I never saw Sir Herbert 
till now — I like him — I like his princi- 
ples — his love of his country — his attach- 
ment to his family." 



"He's a very fine fellow— no better 
fellow than Herbert Annaly— Bnt as for 
his attachment to his family, who thanks 
him for that? Who could help it, 
with such a family ?— And his love for 
his country— every body loves his 


" More or less, I suppose," said Os- 

" But, upon my word, I entirely agree 
with you about Sir Herbert — though I 
know he is prejudiced against me to the 
last degree." 

"If he is, I don't know it, Sir — I 
never found it out." 

" He will let it out by and by — I 
only hope he will not prejudice you 

against me. 

" That is not very easily done, Sir." 
" As you have given some proof, my 
dear boy, and I thank you for it. But 
the Annalys would go more cautiously 
to work — I only put you on your guard 
— Marcus and Sir Herbert never could 


hit it off together — And 1 am afraid the 
breach between us and the Annalys 
must be widened — for Marcus must 
stand against Sir Herbert at the next 
election, if he lives — Pray how is he ?" 

" Not strong, Sir — he has a hectic 
colour — as I was very sorry to see." 

" Aye, poor fellow — he broke some 
blood vessel, I think Marcus told me, 
when they were in England." 

" Yes, Sir, so Lady Annaly told me — 
it was in over exerting himself in extin- 
guishing a fire." 

" A very fine spirited fellow he is, no 
doubt," said Sir Ulick, " but, after all r 
that was rather a foolish thing, in his 

state of health. By the by, as your 

guardian, it is my duty to explain the 
circumstances of this family to you — in 
case you should ever hereafter have any 
serious thoughts as you say, you should 
know what comforted Marcus in his 
disappointment there. There is, then, 
some confounded flaw in that old father's 


will, through which the great Herbert 
estate slips to an heir at law, who has 
started up within this twelvemonth — 
Miss Annaly, who was to have been a 
nonpareil of an heiress, in case of the 
brother's death, will have but a moderate 
fortune ; and the poor dowager will be 
but scantily provided for, after all the 
magnificence which she has been used 
to, unless he lives to make up something 
handsome for them. I don't know the 
particulars, but I know that a vast deal 
depends on his living till he has levied 
certain fines, which he ought to have 
levied, instead of amusing himself put- 
ting out other people's fires. But I am 
excessively anxious about it, and now 
on your account as well as theirs, for it 
would make a great difference to you, if 
you seriously have any thoughts of Miss 

Ormond declared this could make no 
difference to him, since his own fortune 
would be sufficient for all the wishes 


of such a woman as he supposed her 
to be. 

The next day Marcus O' Shane arrived 
from England. This was the first time 
that Ormond and he had met since the 
affair of Moriarty, and the banishment 
from Castle Hermitage. The meeting 
was awkward enough, notwithstanding 
Sir Ulick's attempts to make it other- 
wise — Marcus laboured under the double 
consciousness of having deserted Harry 
in past adversity, and of being jealous of 
his present prosperity. Ormond at first 
went forward to meet him more than 
half way with great cordiality, but the 
cold politeness of Marcus chilled him; 
and the heartless congratulations, and 
frequent allusions in the course of the 
first hour to Ormond's new fortune and 
consequence, offended our young hero's 
pride. Fie grew more reserved, the 
more cou.pliirientary Mircus became, 
especially as in all his compliments there 
was a mixture of persiflage, which Mar- 


cus trusted erroneously that Or»v>ond's 
untutored, unpractised ear would ^t 

Hairy sat silent, proudly indignant. 
He valued himself on being- something, 
and somebody, independently of his 
fortune — he had worked hard to become 
so — he had the consciousness of tried 
integrity, resolution, and virtue about 
him ; and was it to be implied that he 
was only somebody, in consequence of 
his having chanced to become heir to so 
many thousand pounds a year? Neither 
as flattery nor persiflage could he bear 
this — much less could he endure to have 
Marcus suppose, that he could at once 
flatter and sneer at him. Sir Ulick, 
whose address was equal to most occa- 
sions, was not able to manage so as to 
make these young men like one another. 
Marcus had an old jealousy of Harry's 
favour with his father, of his father's 
affection for Harry ; and at the present 
moment he was conscious, that his fatheC 


was, with just cause, much displeased 
with him. Of this Harry knew nothing, 
but Marcus suspected that his father had 
told Ormond every thing 1 , and this in- 
creased the awkwardness and ill hu- 
mour that Marcus felt ; and notwith- 
standing all his knowledge of the world, 
and conventional politeness, he shewed 
his vexation in no well bred manner. 
— He was now in particular bad hu- 
mour, in consequence of a scrape, as 
he called it, which he had got into, 
during his last winter in JLondon, re- 
specting an intrigue, commenced with a 
married lady of rank. Marcus, by some 
intemperate expressions, had brought on 
the discovery, of which, when it was too 
late, he repented. A public trial was likely 
to be the consequence — the damages 
would doubtless be laid at the least at 
ten thousand pounds. Marcus, however, 
counting, as sons sometimes do, in cal- 
culating their father's fortune, all the 
credit, and knowing nothing of the 


debtor side of the account, conceived 
his father's wealth to be inexhaustible. 
Lady 0' Shane's large fortune had 
cleared off all debts, and had set Sir 
Ulick up in a bank, which was in high 
credit ; — then he had shares in a canal 
and in a silver mine — he held two lucra- 
tive sinecure places — had bought estates 
in three counties — the son did not know, 
that for the borrowed purchase-money 
of two of the estates, Sir Ulick was 
now paying high and accumulating inte- 
rest; so that the prospect of being 
called upon for ten thousand pounds 
was most alarming. In this exigency 
Sir Ulick, who had long foreseen how 
the affair was likely to terminate, had 
his eye upon his ward's ready money. 
It was for this he had been at such pe- 
culiar pains to ingratiate himself with 
Ormond. His fondness for Ormond, 
nevertheless, made him hesitate — he was 
unwilling to injure him, or to hazard his 
property — very unwilling to prey upon 


his generosity — still more so after the 
late handsome manner, in which his 
ward had hazarded his life in defence 
of his guardian's honour. 

Sir Ulick who saw, the first evening 
that Marcus and Ormond met, that Mar- 
cus was not going the way to assist 
these views, pointed out to him how 
much it was for his interest to concili- 
ate Ormond, and to establish himself in 
his good opinion — but Marcus, though 
he saw and acknowledged this, could 
not submit his pride and temper to the 
necessary restraint. For a few hours he 
would display his hereditary talents, and 
all the acquired graces of polished so- 
ciety ; but the next hour his ill humour 
would break out, in a way which Or- 
mond's. generous spirit could not bear, 
to his inferiors, to his father's tenants 
and dependants. Before he went to 
England, even from his boyish days, 
Marcus's manners had been habitually 
haughty and tyrannical to the lower 


class of people. Ormond and he had 
always differed, and often quarrelled on 
this subject. Ormond hoped to find 
Marcus's manners altered in this respect 
by his residence in a more polished 
country. But the external polish he 
had acquired had not reached the mind 
— high bred society had taught him only 
to be polite to his equals : he was now 
still more disposed to be insolent to 
his inferiors, especially to his Irish infe- 
riors. He affected now to consider him- 
self as more than half an Englishman — 
and returning from London in all the 
distress and disgrace to which he had 
reduced himself by criminal indulgence 
in the vices of fashionable, and what he 
called refined society, he vented his ill 
humour on his countrymen, on the poor 
Irish peasants — the natives, as he termed 
them, in derision. — He spoke to them al- 
ways as if they were slaves, he con- 
sidered them as barbarians and savages. 
Marcus had, early in life, almost before 


he knew the real distinctions, or more 
than the names of the different parties in 
Ireland, been a strong- party man. He 
called himself a government man — but 
he was one of those parti zans, whom 
every wise and good administration in 
Ireland has discountenanced and dis- 
claimed. He was, in short, one of those; 
who have made their politics an excuse 
to their conscience for the indulgence of 
a violent temper. 

Ormond was indignant at the inve- 
terate prejudice, that Marcus shewed 
against a poor man, whom he had in- 
jured, but who had never injured him. 
The moment Marcus saw Moriarty Car- 
roll again, and heard his name men- 
tioned, he exclaimed and reiterated, 
" That's a bad fellow — I know him of 
old — all those Carrolls are rascals and 

Marcus looked with a sort of disdain- 
ful spleen at the house, which Ormond 
had fitted up for Moriarty. 


" So, you stick to this fellow still ! — 
What a dupe, Ormond, this Moriarty 
has made of you !" said Marcus, " but 
that's not my affair, — I only wonder 
how you wheedled my father out of the 
ground for the garden here." 

" There was no wheedling in the 
case," said Ormond, " your father gave 
it freely, or 1 should not have accepted 

" You were very good to accept it, 
no doubt," said Marcus, in an ironical 
tone, " I know I have asked my father 
for a garden to a cottage before now, 
and have been refused." 

Sir Ulick came up just as this was 
said, and, alarmed at the tone of voice, 
used all his address to bring his son back 
to good temper — and he might have 
succeeded, but that Peggy Sheridan that 
was, chanced to appear at that instant. 

" Who is that?" cried Marcus, 
" Peggy Sheridan, as I live! is not it?" 

" No, please your honour, — but Peggy 


Sheridan that was — Peggy Carroll that 
is" said Peggy, curtsying, with a slight 
blush, and an arch smile. 

" So, you have married that Moriarty 
at last." 

" I have, please your honour — he is a 
very honest boy — and I'm very happy — 
if your honour's pleased." 

" Who persuaded your father to this, 
pray, contrary to my advice ?" 

" Nobody at all, plase your honour," 
said Peggy, looking frightened. 

" Why do you say that, Peggy," said 
Ormond, " when you know it was I per- 
suaded your father to give his consent to 
your marriage with Moriarty." 

" Yon ! Mr. Ormond ! Oh, 1 compre- 
hend it all, now," said Marcus, with his 
slight sneering look and tone, " No 
doubt you had good reasons." 

Poor Peggy blushed deepest crimson. 

" I understand it all now," said Mar- 
cus, " I understand you now, Harry !" 

Ormond's anger rose, and with a look 
of high disdain, he replied — 


" You understand me, now ! no, nor 
ever will, nor ever can. Our minds are 
unintelligible to each other." 

Then turning from him, Ormond 
walked away with indignant speed. 

" Peggy, don't I see something like a 
cow yonder, getting her bread at my 
expense ?" said Sir Ulick, directing 
Peggy's eye to a gap in the hedge by 
the road-side. " Whose cow is that at 
the top of the ditch, half through my 
hedge ?" 

" I can't say, please your honour," 
said Peggy, " if it wouldn't be Paddy 

M'Grath's Betty M'Greggor !" cried 

she, calling to a bare footed girl — 
" Whose cow is yonder ?" 

" Oh, marcy ! but if it isn't our own 
red rogue — and when I tied her legs 
three times myself, the day;" said the 
girl, running to drive away the cow. 

" Oh, she strays and trespasses strange- 
ly, the red cow, for want of the little 
spot your honour promised her," said 


" Well, run and save my hedge from 
her now, my pretty Peggy, and I will 
find the little spot for her to-morrow," 
said Sir Ulick. 

Away ran Peggy after the cow — 
while lowering Marcus cursed them all 
three. Pretty Peg he swore ought to be 
banished the estate — the cow ought to 
be hamstrung, instead of having a spot 
promised her — " but this is the way, 
Sir, you ruin the country and the 
people," said he to his father. 

" Be that as it may, I do not ruin 
myself as you do, Marcus," replied the 
cool Sir Ulick. " Never mind the cow 
— nonsense! I am not thinking of a 

" Nor I either, Sir." 

" Then follow Harry Ormond di- 
rectly, and make him understand that 
he misunderstood you," said Sir Ulick. 

" Excuse me, Sir, I cannot bend to 
him," said Marcus. 

" And you expect that he will lend 


you ten thousand pounds at your utmost 
need " 

" The money, with your estate, can 
be easily raised elsewhere, Sir," said 

" I tell you, it cannot, Sir," said the 

" I cannot bend to Ormond, Sir — to 
any body but him — any thing but that — 
my pride cannot stoop to that." 

" Your pride ! — ' pride that licks the 
dust,' " thought Sir Ulick. It was in 
vain for the politic father lo remonstrate 
with the headstrong son. The whole 
train which Sir Ulick had laid with so 
much skill was, he feared, at the mo- 
ment when his own delicate hand was 
just preparing lo give the effective touch, 
blown up by the rude impatience of his 
son. Sir Ulick, however, never lost 
time or opportunity in vain regret for 
the past. Even in the moment of disap" 
pointment he looked t ■> the future. He 
saw the danger of keeping two young 

9ti ORMOND. 

men together, who had such incompa- 
tible tempers and characters. He was, 
therefore, glad when he met Ormond 
again, to hear him propose his returning 
to Annaly, and he instantly acceded to 
the proposal. 

" Castle Hermitage, I know, my dear 
boy, cannot be as pleasant to you just 
now, as I could wish to make it — we 
have nobody here now — and Marcus — is 
not all I could wish him," said Sir 
Ulick, with a sigh. " He had always a 
jealousy of my affection for you, Harry — 
it cannot be helped — we do not chuse 
our own children — but we must abide 
by them — you must perceive that things 
are not going on quite rightly between 
my son and me. 

" I am sorry for it, Sir — especially as 
I am convinced I can do no good, and 
therefore wish not to interfere." 

" I believe you are right — though 1 
part from you with regret." 

" I shall be within your reach, Sif, 


you know — whenever you wish for me, 
if ever I can be of the least use to you, 
summon me, and I am at your orders." 

" Thank you ! but stay one moment," 
said Sir Ulick, with a sudden look of 
recollection, " You will be of age in a 
few days, Harry — we ought to settle 
accounts, should not we ?" 

" Whenever you please, Sir — no hurry 
on my part — but you have advanced me 
a great deal of money lately, I ought to 
settle that." 

" Oh, as to that*— a mere trifle — If you 
are in no hurry, I am in none — for I 
shall have business enough on my hands 
during these few days, before Lady Nor- 
ton fills the house again with company — 
I am certainly a little hurried now." 

" Then, Sir, do not think of my busi- 
ness—I cannot be better off, you know, 
than I am — I assure you I am sensible 
of that— Never mind the accounts, only 
send for me whenever I can be of any 
use or pleasure to you— I need not make 

VOL,. III. p 


speeches—I trust, my dear guardian,— 
my father, when I was left fatherless,— I 
trust you believe I have some gratitude 
in me." 

** 1 do," cried Sir Ulick, much moved, 
« c and, by Heaven, it is impossible to— I 
mean — in short, it is impossible not to 
love you, Harry Ormond." 



INHERE are people who can go on 
very smoothly with those whose princi- 
ples and characters they despise and dis- 
like. — There are people who, provided 
they live in company, are happy, and care 
but little of what the company is com- 
posed. But our young hero certainly 
was not one of these contemptibly .con- 
tented people. He was perhaps too much 
in the other extreme. He could not, 
without overt words, or looks of indigna- 
tion, endure the presence of those whose 
characters or principles he despised — he 
could not even, without manifest symp- 
toms of restlessness or ennui, submit long 
to live with mere companions; he re- 

100 ORMOND. 

quired to have friends; nor could he 
make a friend from ordinary materials, 
however smooth the grain, or however 
fine the polish they might take. Even 
when the gay world at Castle Hermit- 
age was new to him, amused and en- 
chanted as he was at first with that bril- 
liant society, he could not have been 
content or happy without his friends at 
Vicar's Vale, to whom, once at least in the 
four and twenty hours, he found it neces- 
sary to open his heart. We may then 
judge how happy he now felt in returning 
to Annaly : after the sort of moral con- 
straint which he had endured in the com- 
pany of Marcus O' Shane, we may guess 
what an expansion of heart took place. 
—A phlegmatic observer might have 
thought, that the young man was abso- 
lutely in love with Lady Annaly : indeed 
she had the power of making her com- 
pany peculiarly agreeable to youth. — 
(Jluite content herself to be elderly, she 
sympathized with all the feelings of the 

ORMOND. 101 

young ; so that, as Ormond said of her, 
— " She enjoyed many of the pleasures 
attendant upon early life with all the 
privileges of age." 

The family union and domestic happi- 
ness, which he saw at Annaly, certainly 
struck him at this time more forcibly, 
from the contrast with what he had just 
seen at Castle Hermitage. The effect of 
contrast, however, is but transient. It is 
powerful as a dramatic resource, but in 
real life it is of no permanent conse- 
quence. There was here a charm which 
operates with as great certainty, and with 
a power secure of increasing instead of 
diminishing from habit. The charm of 
domestic politeness, in the every day man- 
ners of this mother, son, and daughter, 
towards each other, as well as towards 
their guests. Ormond saw and felt it ir- 
resistibly. He saw the most delicate at- 
tentions combined with entire sincerity, 
perfect ease, and constant respect; the 
result of the early habits of good breeding 

102 ORMOND. 

acting- upon the feelings of genuine affec- 
tion. The external polish, which Ormond 
now admired, was very different from 
that varnish, which often is hastily applied 
to hide imperfections. This polish was of 
the substance itself, to be obtained only 
by long use ; but, once acquired, lnst- 
ing for ever : not only beautiful but 
serviceable, preserving from the injuries 
of time, and from the dangers of fami- 

What influence the sister's charms 
might have to increase Ormond's admira- 
tion of the brother, we shall not pre- 
sume to determine; but certainly he 
liked Sir Herbert Annaly better than 
any young man he had ever seen. 
Sir Herbert was some years older than 
Ormond; he was in his twenty-seventh 
year : but at this age he had done more 
good in life, than many men ever accom- 
plished during their whole existence. — 
Sir Herbert's principal estates were in 
another part of Ireland. — Dr. Cambray 

ORMOND. 1.03 

had visited them. The account he gave 
Ormond of all that had been done there 
to improve the people and to make them 
happy ; of the prosperous state of the 
peasantry; their industry and indepen- 
dance; their grateful, not servile attach- 
ment to Sir Herbert Annaly and his 
mother ; the veneration in which the 
name of Annaly was held ; delighted the 
enthusiastic Ormond. 

The name of Annaly was growing 
wonderfully dear to him ; and, all of a 
sudden, the interest he felt in the details 
of a country gentleman's life were amaz- 
ingly increased. At times, when the ladies 
were engaged, he accompanied Sir Her- 
bert in visiting his estate. — He had 
never till lately resided at Annaly, which 
had, within but a short time, reverted to 
his possession, in consequence of the 
death of the person to whom it had been 
let. Sir Herbert found much that wanted 
improvement in the land, and more in the 

104 ORMOND. 

This estate stretched along the sea- 
shore — the tenants whom he found living 
near the coast were an idle, profligate, 
desperate set of people ; who, during the 
time of the late middle landlord, had 
been in the habit of making their rents by 
nefarious practices. The best of the 
set were merely idle fishermen, whose 
habits of trusting to their luck incapaci- 
tated them from industry — the others 
were illicit distillers — smugglers — and 
miscreants who lived by waifs and strays ; 
an short, by the pillage of vessels on the 
coast. The coast was dangerous,' — 
there happened frequent shipwrecks j 
owing partly, as was supposed, to the 
false lights hung out by these people, 
whose interest it was that vessels should 
be wrecked. Shocked at these practices, 
Sir Herbert Annaly had, from the mo- 
ment he came into possession of the 
estate, exerted himself to put a stop 
to them, and to punish where he could 
not reform the offenders. — The people 

ORMOND. 105 

at first pleaded a sort of tenant's 
right, which they thought a landlord 
could scarcely resist. They protested 
that they could not make the rent, if 
they were not allowed to make it their 
own way ; and shewed, beyond a doubt, 
that Sir Herbert could not get half as 
much for his land in those parts, if he 
looked too scrupulously into the means 
by which it was. made. They brought, 
in corroboration of their arguments or 
assertions, the example and constant 
practice of " many as good a jantle- 
man as any in Ireland, who had his 
rent made up for him that ways, very 
ready and punctual. There was his 
honour, Mr. Such-a-one, and so on ; and 
jhere was Sir Ulick O'Shane, sure! Oh! 
he was the man to live under^— he was 
the man that knew when to wink 
and when to blink ; and if he shut his 
eyes properly, sure his tenants filled his 
fist. — Oh ! Sir Ulick was the great man 
for favour and purtection, none like him 


at all ! — He is the good landlord, that will 
fight the way clear for his own tenants 
through thick and thin — none dare touch 
them. — Oh! Sir Ulick's the kind jantle- 
man that understands the law for the 
poor, and could bring them off at 
every turn, and show them the way 
through the holes in an act of parlia- 
ment, asy as through a riddle! Oh, and 
if he could but afford to be half as 
good as his promises, Sir Ulick O'Shane 
would be too good entirely!" 

Now Sir Ulick O'Shane had pur- 
chased a tract of ground adjoining to 
Sir Herbert's, on this coast; and he 
had bought it on the speculation, that 
he could set it at very high rent to 
these people, of whose ways and means 
of paying it he chose to remain in 
ignorance. All the tenants whom Sir 
Herbert banished from his estate flocked 
to Sir Ulick's. 

By the sacrifice of his own imme- 
diate interest, and by great personal 

ORMOND. 107 

exertion, strict justice, a gene row and 
well secured system of reward, Sir 
Herbert already had produced a con- 
siderable change for the better in the 
morals and habits of the people. He 
was employing some of his tenants on 
the coast, in building a light-house, for 
which he had a grant from parliament ; 
and he was endeavouring to establish 
a manufacture of sail cloth, for which 
there was sufficient demand. But 
almost at every step of his progress, 
he was impeded by the effects of the 
bad example of his neighbours on Sir 
Ulick's estates, and by the continual 
quarrels between the idle, discarded 
tenants, and their industrious and now 
prospering successors. 

Whenever a vessel in distress was 
seen off the coast, there was a constant 
struggle between the two parties who 
had opposite interests ; the one to save, 
the other to destroy. In this state of 
things, causes of complaint perpetually 

108 ORMOND. 

occurred j and Ormond, who was pre* 
sent, when the accusers and the ac- 
cused appealed to their landlord, some, 
times as lord of the manor, sometimes 
as magistrate, had frequent opportuni- 
ties of seeing- both Sir Herbert's prin- 
ciples and temper put to the test.— 
Ormond's interest in the whole was in- 
creased by the share his guardian, or 
his guardian's tenantry, had in the busi- 
ness. Besides this, his attention was 
wakened to these subjects, for he 
might hereafter be a country gentle- 
man ; and, in similar situations, called 
upon to judge and to act for himself. 
— He liked to compare the different 
modes in which king Corny, his guar- 
dian, and Sir Herbert Annaly managed 
these things. — Sir Herbert governed 
neither by threats, punishments, abuse, 
nor tyranny; nor yet did he govern 
by promises nor bribery, favour and 
protection, like Sir Ulick. — He neither 
cajoled nor bullied — neither held it as 

ORMOND. 109 

a principle, as Marcus did, that the 
people must be kept down, nor that the 
people must be deceived. — He treated 
them neither as slaves, subject to his 
will; nor as dupes, or objects on which 
to exercise his wit or his cunning.— 
He treated them as reasonable beings, 
and as his fellow creatures, whom he 
wished to improve, that he might make 
them and himself happy. — He spoke 
sense to them; he mixed that sense 
with wit and humour, in the propor- 
tion necessary to make it palatable to 
an Irishman. 

In generosity there was a resemblance 
between the temper of Sir Herbert and 
of Corny; but to Ormond's surprise, 
and at first to his disappointment, 
Sir Herbert valued justice more than 
generosity. Ormond's heart on this 
point was often with king Corny, when 
his head was forced to be with Sir 
Herbert; but, by degrees, head and 
heart came together. — He became prac- 

110 ORMOND* 

tically convinced, that justice is the 
virtue that works best for a constancy ; 
and best serves every body's interest in- 
time and in turn. Ormond now often said 
to himself — " Sir Herbert Annaly is but a 
few years older than I am ; by the time 
I am his age, why should not I become 
as useful, and make as many human 
beings happy as he does ?" In the mean 
time, the idea of marrying and settling 
in Ireland became every day more agree- 
able to Ormond ; and France and Italy, 
which he bad been so eager to visit, 
faded from his imagination. Sir Herbert 
and Lady Annaly, who had understood 
from Dr. Cambray, that Ormond was 
going to commence his grand tour im- 
mediately, and who had heard him make 
a number of preparatory inquiries when 
he had been first at Annaly, naturally 
turned the conversation often to the sub- 
ject. They had looked out maps and 
prints, and they had taken down from 
their shelves the different books of tra- 


vels, which might be most useful to him, 
with guides, aud post-road books, and 
all that could speed the parting guest. — 
But the guest had no mind to part — 
every thing, every body at Annaly, he 
found so agreeable and so excellent. 
It must be a great satisfaction to a young 
man who has a grain of sense, and who 
feels that he is falling inevitably and 
desperately in love, to see that all the 
lady's family, as well as the object of 
his passion, are exactly the people whom 
he should wish of all others to make his 
friends for life. Here was every thing 
that could be desired, suitability of age, 
of fortune, of character, of temper, of 
tastes, — every thing that could make a 
marriage happy, could Ormond but win 
the heart of Florence Annaly. Was that 
heart disengaged? — He resolved to in- 
quire first from his dear friend Doctor 
Cambray, who was much in the confi- 
dence of this family, a great favourite 
with Florence, and consequently dearer 
than ever to Ormond. He went directly 

1 12 ORMOND. 

to Vicar's Vale to see and consult him, 
and Ormond thought he was confiding 
a profound secret to the Doctor, when 
first he spoke to him of his passion for 
Miss Annaly ; but to his surprise, tWe 
Doctor told him he had seen it long ago, 
and his wife and daughters had all dis- 
covered it, even when they were first 
with him at Annaly. 

" Is it possible? — and what do you 
all think ?" 

" We think that you would be a per- 
fectly happy man, if you could win Miss 
Annaly ; and we wish you success most 
sin cerely . — B ut — ' ' 

" But — Oh ! my dear Doctor, you 
alarm me beyond measure." 

" What! by wishing you success?" 
*' No, but by something in your look 
and manner, and by that terrible but — 
you think that I shall never succeed ? — 
you think that her heart is engaged ; — if 
it be, tell me so at once, and I will set 
off for France to-morrow." 

" My good Sir, you are always for 

ORMOND. 1^3 

desperate measures, and you are in too 
o-reat a hurrv to coine to a conclusion, 
before you have the means of forming 
any just conclusion. — Remember, I tell 
you, this precipitate temper of yours 
will some time or other bring some great 
evil upon you." 

" I will be patient all my life after- 
wards, if you will only this instant tell 
me whether she is engaged." 

" I do not know whether Miss An- 
naly's heart be disengaged or not — I 
can tell you only that she has had a 
number of brilliant offers, and that she 
has refused them all." 

" That proves that she had not found 
one amongst them that she liked," said 

" Or that she liked some one better 
than all those whom she refused," said 
Dr. Cambray. 

" That is true — that is possible — that 
is a dreadful possibility," said Ormond. 
«' But do you think there is any probabi- 
lity of that." 

114 OftMONB. 

" There is, I am sorry to tell you, my 
dear Ormond, a probability against you 
— but I can only state the facts in ge- 
neral. — I can form no opinion, for I have 
never had an opportunity of judging — I 
have never seen the two people together. 
— But there is a young gentleman of 
great merit, of suitable family and for- 
tune, who is deeply in love with Miss 
Annnaly, and who I presume has not 
been refused, for I understand he is soon 
to be here." 

" To be here'!" cried Ormond — " a 
man of great merit — 1 hope he is not an 
agreeable man." 

" That's a vain hope," said Dr. Cam- 
bray ; " he is a very agreeable man." 

" Very agreeable ! — What sort of per- 
son—grave or gay ? — Like any body that 
I ever saw ?" 

l< Yes, like a person that you have 
seen — and a person for whom I believe 
you have a regard ; — like his own father, 
your dear king Corny's friend, General 

ORMOND. 11-3 

" How extraordinary ! — how unlucky !" 
said Ormond ; " I would rather my rival 
was any one else than the son of a 
man I am obliged to — and a most dan- 
gerous rival he must be, if he have his 
father's merit, and his father's manners. 
— Oh ! my dear Dr. Cambray, I am sure 
she likes him — and yet she could not be 
so cheerful in his absence, if she were 
much in love — I defy her; — and it is 
impossible that he can be as much in 
love with her as I am, else nothing could 
keep him from her." 

" Nothing but his duty, I suppose you: 
mean ?" 

" Duty .'—What duty ?" 

" Why, there really are duties ia this 
world to be performed, though a man in 
love is apt to forget it. Colonel Albe- 
marle, being an officer, cannot quit his 
regiment, till he has obtained leave of 

" I am heartily glad of it," cried Or- 
mond, " I will make the best use of my 
time before he comes. — But my dear 

116 ORMOND. 

Doctor, do you think Lady Annaly,—, 
do you think Sir Herbert wishes it to 

" I really cannot tell; — I know only 
that he is a particular friend of Sir Her- 
bert's, and that I have heard Lady An- 
naly speak of him as being a young man 
of excellent character and high honour, 
for whom she has a great regard." 

Ormond sighed. 

" Heaven forgive me that sigh," said 
he, " I thought I never should be brought 
so low as to sigh at hearing of any man's 
excellent character and hig-h honour.— 
But 1 certainly wish Colonel Albemarle 
had never been born. — Heaven preserve 
me from envy and jealousy." 

Our young hero had need to repeat 
this prayer the next morning at breakfast, 
\dien Sir Herbert, on opening his let- 
ters, exclaimed, " My friend, Colonel 
Albemarle — " 

And Lady Annaly, in a tone of joy— 
•« Colonel Albemarle! — I hope he will 
soon be here." 

ORMOND. 11? 

Sir Herbert proceeded — <{ Cannot ob- 
tain leave of absence yet — but lives t« 
hopes" said Sir Herbert, reading the 
letter, and handing it to his mother. 

Ormond did not dare, did not think it 
honourable to make use of his eyes, though 
there now might have been a decisive 
moment for observation. No sound reach- 
ed his ear from Miss Annaly*s voice ; but 
Lady Annaly spoke freely and decidedly 
in praise of Colonel Albemarle. As 
she read the letter, Sir Herbert, after 
asking Ormond three times whether he 
was not acquainted with General Albe- 
marle, obtained for answer, that he 
" really did not know." In truth, Or- 
mond did not know any thing at that 
moment. Sir Herbert surprised, and 
imagining that Ormond had not yet heard 
him, was going to repeat his question, 
but a look from his mother stopped him. 
A sudden light struck Lady Annaly. 
Mothers are remarkably quick sighted 
upon these occasions. There was a si- 

118 ORMOND. 

lence of a few minutes, which appeared 
to poor Ormond to be a silence that would 
never be broken ; it was broken by some 
slight observation which the brother and 
sister made to each other upon a para- 
graph in the newspaper, which they were 
reading together. Ormond took breath. 

" She cannot love him, or she could 
not be thinking of a paragraph in the 
newspaper at this moment." 

From this time forward Ormond was 
for some days in a continual state of 
agitation, reasoning as the passions rea- 
son, as ill as possible, upon every, the 
slightest circumstance that occurred, from 
whence he might draw favourable or un- 
favourable omens. He was resolved — and 
that was prudent — not to speak of his 
own sentiments, till he was clear how 
matters stood about Colonel Albemarle; 
he was determined not to expose himself 
to the useless mortification of a refusal. 
While he was in this agony of uncer- 
tainty, one morning he went out to take 


ORMOND. 1 19 

a solitary walk, that he might reflect at 
leisure. Just as he was turning from the 
avenue to the path that led to the wood, 
a car full of morning' visitors appeared. 
Ormond endeavoured to avoid them, but 
not before he had been seen. A servant 
rode after him to beg to know " if he 
was Mr. Harry Ormond — if he was, one 
of the ladies on the car, Mrs. M'Crule, 
sent her compliments to him, and re- 
quested he would be so good to let her 
speak with him at the house, as she had 
a few words of consequence to say," 

Mrs. M'CruIe] Ormond did not im- 
mediately recollect, that he had the honour 
of knowing any such person, till the ser- 
vant said, " Miss Black, Sir, that was— 
formerly at Castle Hermitage." 

His old friend, his old enemy, Miss 
Black, be recollected well. He obeyed 
the lady's summons, and returned to the 

Mrs. M'Crule had not altered in dis- 
position, though her objects had been 

120 ORMONJ). 

changed by marriage. Having 1 no longer 
Lady G'Shane's quarrels with her hus- 
band to talk about, she had become the 
pest of the village of Castle Hermitage 
and of the neighbourhood — the Lady Blue- 
mantle of the parish. Had Miss Black 
remained in England, married or single, 
she would only have been one of a 
numerous species too well known to need 
any description ; but transplanted to a 
new soil and a new situation, she proved 
to be a variety of the old species, with 
peculiar noxious qualities, which it may 
be useful to describe, as a warning to the 
unwarv. It is unknown how much mis- 
chief the Lady Bluemantle class may do 
in Ireland, where parties in religion and 
politics run high ; and where it often 
happens, that individuals of the different 
sects and parties actually hate without 
knowing each other, watch without mix- 
ing with one another, and consequently 
are prone reciprocally to believe any 
stories or reports, however false or ab- 


ORMOND. 121 

surd, which tend to gratify their antipa- 
thies. In this situation, it is scarcely 
possible to get at the exact truth as to 
the words, actions, and intentions of the 
nearest neighbours, who happen to be of 
opposite parties or persuasions. What 
a tine field is here for a mischief maker. 
Mrs. M'Crule had in her parish done her 
part; she had gone from rich to poor, 
from poor to rich, from catholic to pro- 
testant, from churchman to dissenter, and 
from dissenter to methodist, reporting 
every idle story, and repeating every ilf- 
natored thing that she heard said — 
things often more bitterly expressed than, 
thought, and always exaggerated or dis- 
torted in the repetition. No two people 
in the parish could have continued on 
speaking terms at the end of the year, 
but that happily there was in this parish 
both a good clergyman and a good priest, 
and still more happily they both agreed, 
and worked together for the good of their 
parishioners. Dr. Camfcray and Mr. 



M'Cormuck made it their business con- 
tinually to follow after Mrs. M'Crule, 
healing the wounds which she inflicted, 
and pouring into the festering heart the 
balm of christian charity ; they were be- 
loved and revered by their parishioners. 
Mrs. M'Crule was soon detected, and 
universally avoided. Enraged, she at- 
tacked, by turns, both the clergyman and 
the priest; and when she could not se- 
parate them, she found out that it was 
very wrong that they should agree. She 
discovered that she was a much better 
piotestant, an-i a much better christian, 
than Dr. Cambray, because she hated her 
catholic neighbours. 

Dr. Cambray had taken pains to secure 
the co-operation of the catholic clergy- 
man in all his attempts to improve the 
lower classes of the people. His village 
school was open to catholics as well as 
Protestants j and father M'Cormuck, 
having been assured that their religion 
would not be tampered with, allowed and 

ORMOND. 123 

encouraged his flock, to send their chil- 
dren to the same seminarv. 

Mrs. M'Crule was, or affected to be, 
much alarmed and scandalized at seeing: 
catholic and protestant children mixing 
so much together ; she knew that opinions 
were divided among some families in the 
neighbourhood upon the propriety of this 
mixture, and Mrs. M'Crule thought it a 
fine opportunity of making herself of 
consequence, by stirring up the matter 
into a party question. This bright idea 
had occurred to her just about the time 
when Ormond brought over little Tommy 
from the Black Islands. During Or- 
mond's absence upon his tour, Sheelah 
and Moriarty had regularly sent the boy 
to the village school, exhorting him to 
mind his book and his figures, that he 
might surprise Mr. Ormond with his 
laming, when he should come back. 
Tommy, with this excitation, and being 
a quick, clever, little fellow, soon got to 
the head of his class, and kept there, and 

124 OKMOKP. 

won all the school-prizes, and brought 
them home in triumph to his grandatne, 
and to his dear Moriarty, to be treasured 
up to shew to Mr. Ormond when he 
should come home. Dr. Cambray was 
pleased with the boy, and so was every 
body, except Mrs. M'Crule. She often 
visited the school fur the pleasure of 
fmcting fault, and she wondered to see 
this little Tommy, who was a catholic, 
carrying away the prizes from all the 
others ; she thought it her duty to inquire 
further about him, and as soon as she dis- 
covered that he came from the Black 
Islands, that he lived with Moriarty, and 
that Mr. Ormond was interested about 
him, she said she knew there was some- 
thing wrong — therefore, she, set her face 
against the child, and against the shame- 
ful partiality that some people- shewed. 

Dr. Canabray pursued his course,, never 
minding her j and little Tommy pursued 
his course> improving- rapidly in his larw- 

ORMONU. 125 

Now there was in that county a muni- 
ficent charitable institution, for the edu- 
cation of children from seven to twelve 
years old ;~ a 'prentice fee was given 
with the children, when they left the 
school, and they had several other advan- 
tages, which made parents of the lower 
class extremely desirous to get their sons- 
into this establishment. 

Before they could be admitted, it was 
necessary, that they should have a certifi- 
cate from their parish minister and catho- 
lic clergyman, stating, that they could 
read and write, and that they were well- 
behaved children. On a certain day, 
every year, a certain number of candi- 
dates were presented. The certificates 
from the clergyman and priest of their re- 
spective parishes were much attended to 
by the lady patronesses, and by these the 
choice of the candidate to be admitted 
was usually decided. Little Tommy had 
an excellent certificate both from father 
-M'Cormuck and from Dr, Cam bra y. 

326 ORMOND. 

Sheelah and Moriarty were in great joy, 
and had all the hopes in life for him ; and 
Sheelah, who was very fond of surprises* 
had cautioned Moriarty, and begged the 
doctor not to tell Mr. Harry a word about 
it, till all mas fixed, " for if tSie boy should 
not have the luck to be chose at last, it 
would only be breaking his little heart 
the worse, that Mr. Hurry should know 
any thing at all about it sure," 

Mean time Mrs. M'Crule was workinsf 
against little Tommy with all her might. 

Some of the lady patronesses were of 
opinion, that it would be expedient in fu- 
ture to confine their bounty to the chil- 
dren of protestants only. 

Mrs M'Crule, who had been deputed 
by one oi the absent ladies to act for her, 
was amazingly busy, visiting all the pa- 
tronessess, and talking, and fearing, and 
" hopii'g to Heaven !" and prophesying, 
canvassing, and collecting opinions and 
votes as for a matter of life and death. — 
She hinted that she knew that the great- 

ORMOND. 127 

est interest was making to get in this year 
a catholic child, and there was no know- 
ing, if this went on, what the consequence 
might be. — In short, Ireland would be 
ruined, if little Tommy should prove the 
successful candidate. Mrs. M'Crule did 
not find it difficult to stir up the prejudices 
and passions of several ladies, whose edu- 
cation and whose means of information, 
misrht have secured them from such low 

Her present business at Annaly was to 
try what impression she could make on 
Lady and Miss Annaly, who were both 
patronesses of the school. As to Ormond, 
whom she never had liked, she was glad 
of this opportunity of revenging herself 
upon his little protege ; and of making 
Mr. Ormond sensible, that she was now a 
person of rather more consequence than 
she had been, when he used formerly to 
defy her at Castle Hermitage. She little 
thought, that while she was thus pursuing 
the dictates of her own hate, she might 
serve the interests of Ormond's love. 



WHEN, in obedience to Mrs. M'CrmVs 
summons, Ormond, returning from his in- 
tended walk, entered the room where the 
ladies sat in a morning', be found there 
^n unusual assemblage of persons — a party 
of morning visitors, the unmuffied con- 
tents of the car. — But, as he entered, he 
bowed as courteously as possible to the 
whole circle, and advanced towards Mrs. 
Bl'Crufe, whose portentous visage he 
could not fail to recognise, That visage 
was nearly half a yard long, thin out of 
^U proportion, and dismal beyond all ima- 
gination; — the corners of the mouth 
drawn dowft, the whites or yellows of the 
eyes upturned, while with hands out- 

ORMOND. 129 

spread she was declaiming, in a lamenta- 
ble tone, deploring-, as Ormond thought, 
some great public calamity ; for the con- 
cluding- words were 

*' The danger, my dear Lady Annaly 
— the danger, my dear Miss Annaly — 
oh! the danger is imminent. We shall 
all be positively undone, ma'am ; and 
Ireland— oh! I wish I was onee safe 
in England again — Ireland positively 
ruined !" 

Ormend, looking to Lady Annaly and 
Miss Annaly for explanation, was some- 
what reassured in this imminent danger, 
by seeing that Lady Annaly's counte- 
nance was perfectly tranquil, and that a 
slight smile played on the lips of Florence. 

" Mr. Ormond," said Lady Annaly, 
" I am sorry to hear that Ireland is in 
danger of being ruined by your means. 1 ' 

** By my means/' said Ormond, in 
great surprise — « I beg your ladyship's 
pardon for repeating your words, but I 
really cannot understand tbeto." 


130 ORMOND. 

" Nor I neither — but by the time you 
have lived as long as I have in the world,' 
said Lady Annaly. " you will not be so 
much surprised as you now seem, my 
good Sir, at hearing people say what 
you do not understand. I am told, that 
Ireland will be undone by means of a 
protige of yours, of the name of Tommy 
Dun not Dun Scotus." 

" Dunshaughlin, perhaps," said Or- 
mond, laughing — *' Tommy Dunshaugh- 
lin ! that little urchin ! What harm can 
little Tommy do to Ireland ? or to any 
mortal ?" 

Without condescending to turn her 
eyes upon Ormond, whose propensity to 
laughter bad of old been offensive to her 
nature, Mrs. M'Crule continued to Lady 

Annaly — 

" It is not of this insignificant child 
as an individual that I am speaking, Lady 
Annaly, but your ladyship, who has lived 
so long in the world, must know, that 
here is no person or thing, however in- 

ORMOND. 131 

significant, that cannot, in the hands of 
a certain description of people, be made 
an engine of mischief." 

" Very true, indeed," said Lady Annaly. 
" And there is no te.ling or conceiv- 
ing-," pursued Mrs. M'Crule, " how in 
the hands of a certain party, you know, 
ma'am, any thing now, even the least 
and the most innocent child — (not that 
I take upon me to say, that this child is so 
very innocent, though to be sure he is 
very little) but innocent or not, there is 
positively nothing, Lady Annaly, ma'am, 
which a certain party, certain evil- 
disposed persons, cannot turn to their 

*' T cannot contradict that, I wish I 
could," said Lady Annaly. 

" But I see your ladyship and Miss 
Annaly do not consider this matter as se- 
riously as I could wish. Tis an infatua- 
tion," said Mrs. M'Crule, uttering a sio-h, 
almost a groan, for her ladyship and her 
daughter's infatuation. •« But if people, 

132- OKMOND. 

ladies especially, knew but half as much 
as I have learnt, since i married Mfr. 
M'Crule, of the real state of Ireland ; or 
if they had but half a quarter as many 
means as I have of obtaining information,, 
Mr. M'Crule being one of his Majesty's; 
very active justices of the peace, riding 
about, and up and down, ma'am, scour- 
ing the country, Sir, you know, and 
having informers high and low, bringing 
us every sort of intelligence ; I say, cay 
dear Lady Annaly, ma'am, you would, if 
you only heard a hundredth part of what! 
hear daily, tremble — your ladyship would* 
tremble from morning till night." 

" Then I am heartily glad I do not bear 
it, for I should dislike very much to trem- 
ble from morning till night, especially as 
my trembling could do nobody any good." 
" But Lady Annaly, m*'am, you can 
do good by exerting yourself, to prevent 
the danger in this emergency; you caw 
do good, and it becomes your station and 
your character; you can do good, nay 

OR5iOM>. V3$ 

dear Lady Annaly, ma'am, to thousands 
in existence, and thousands yet unborn." 

" My benevolence having but a limit- 
ed appetite for thousands," said Lady 
Aitnaly, " 1 should rather, if it be equal 
to you, Mrs. M'Crale, begin with the 
thousands already in existence; and of 
those thousands, why not begin with little 
Tommy ?" 

" It is no use!" cried Mrs. M'CruJe, 
rising from her seat in the indignation of 
disappointed zeal. " Jenny, pull the 
bell for the car — Mrs. M'Greggor, if 
you've no objection, I'm at your service 
for 'tis no use I see for me to speak here 
— nor should I have done so, but that I 
positively thought it my duty - y and also a 
becoming attention to your ladyship and 
Miss Annaly," as lady patronesses, to let 
you know before hand our sentiments, 
as 1 have collected the opinions of so 
many of the leading ladies, and appre- 
hended your ladyship might, before 
it came to a public push, like to have an 

134 ORMOND. 

inkling or innuendo of how matters are 
likely to be carried at the general meet- 
ing of the patronesses on Saturday next, 
•when we are determined to put it to the 
vote and poll. Jenny, do you see Jack and 
the car? Good morning to your lady- 
ship ; good day, Miss Annaly." 

Ormond put in a detainer — " I am 
here in obedience to your summons, Mrs. 
M'Crule, you sent to inform me, that you 
had a few words of consequence to say to 

" True, Sir, 1 did wrap myself up 
this winter morning and came out, as 
Mrs. M'Greggor can testify, in spite of 
my poor face, in hopes of doing some 
little good, and giving a friendly hint, 
before an explosion should publicly take 
place. — But you will excuse me, since I 
find I gain so little credit, and so waste 
my breaih ; 1 can only leave gentlemen 
and ladies in this emergency, if they will 
be bind to the danger at this crisis, to 
follow their own opinions." 

ORMOND. 135 

Ormond still remonstrating on the 
cruelty of leaving him in utter darkness, 
and calling it blindness, and assuring 
Mrs. M'Crule that he had not the slight- 
est conception of what the danger or the 
emergency to which she alluded might be, 
or what little Tommy could have to do 
with it, the lady condescended, in com- 
pliance with Mrs. M'Greggor's twitch 
behind, to stay and recommence her 
statement. He could not forbear smiling 
even more than Lady Annaly had done, 
when he found how poor little Tommy 
was at the bottom of all this danger to 
Ireland, when he was made to understand 
that the emergency and crisis meant no- 
thing but this child's being admitted or 
not admitted into a charity school. — 
While Ormond wag incapable of speaking 
in reply with becoming seriousness, Flo- 
rence, who saw his coudition, had the 
kindness to draw off Mrs. M'Crule' s at- 
tention, by asking her to partake of some 
excellent goose pie, which just then 


l$& ORMON». 

made its entrance. This promised for a 
time to suspend the discussion, and to 
unite all parties in one common sympa- 
thy. When Florence saw that the con- 
sommt, to which she delicately helped her, 
was not thrown away upon Mrs. M'Crule, 
and that the union of goose and turkey 
in this Christmas dainty was much ad. 
mired by this good lady, she attempted 
playfully to pass to a reflection on the 
happy effect, that might to some tastes 
result from unions in party matters. 

But no — u too serious matters these 
to be jested with,"- — even with a glass of 
Barsac at the lips — Mrs. M'Crule stopped- 
to say so and to sigh. — Per favour of the 
Barsac, however, Florence ventured to 
try what a little raillery might do. It 
was possible, that, if Mrs. M'Greggop 
and the chorus of young ladies could be 
made to laugh, Mrs. M'Crule might be 
brought to see the whole thing in a less 
gloomy point of view ; and might per- 
haps be, just in time, made sensible of 

ORMOND. 137 

the ridicule to which she might expose 
herself, by persisting in sounding so pom- 
pously a false alarm. 

" But can there really be so much 
danger," said Florence, " in letting little 
children, protest ant and catholic, come 
together to the same school — sit on the 
same bench — learn the same alphabet 
from the same horn book." 

" Oh my dear Miss Annaly," cried 
Mrs. M'Crule, " I do wonder to hear 
you treat this matter so 'ighily ; you from 
whom I confess I did expect better prin< 
ciples — * sit on the same bench !' easily 
said, but my dear young lady, you do 
not consider, that some errors of popery, 
since there is no catholic in the room, 
I suppose I may say it, the errors 
of popery are wonderfully infectious." 

" 1 remember," said Lady Annaly, 
" when I was a child, being present 
once, when an honest man, that is a pro- 
tectant (for in those days, no man, but a 
protestant, could be called an honest man) y 

138 ORMOND. 

came to my uncle in a great passion to 
complain of the priest, * my lord,' said 
he, ' what do you think the priest is 
going to do ? he is going to bury a ca- 
tholic corpse, not only in the church- 
yard, but, my lord, near to the grave 
of my father, who died a staunch dis- 
senter.' * My dear Sir,' said my uncle, 
to the angry honest mem, * the clergyman 
of the parish is using me worse still, for 
he is going to bury a man, who died last 
Wednesday of the small pox, near to 
my grandmother, who never had the 
small pox in her life." 

Mrs.M'Cmle pursed up her mouth very 
close at this story. She thought Lady An- 
naly and her uncle were very wicked, 
but she did not chuse exactly to say so, as 
her ladyship's uncle was a person of 
rank, and of character too solidly 
established for Mrs. M'Crule to shake. 
— She, therefore, only gave one of her 
sighs for the sins of the whole genera- 
tion, and after a recording look at Mrs. 

ORMOND. 139 

M'Greggor, she returned to the charge 
about the schools and the children. — 

" It could do no possible good," she 
said, '* to admit catholic children to our 
schools, because, do what you will, you 
can never make them good protes- 

" Well," said Lady Annaly, " as my 
friend the excellent Bishop of * * * * * 
said in parliament, ' if you cannot 
make them good protestants, make them 
good catholics, make them good any- 

Giving up Lady Annaly all together, 
Mrs. M'Crule now desired to have Mr. 
Ormond's ultimatum — she wished to 
know whether he had made up his mind 
as to the affair in question — she begged 
leave to observe, " that since the child 
had, to use the gentlest expressions, the 
misfortune to be born and bred a catho- 
lic, it would be most prudent and gen- 
tlemanlike in Mr. Ormond, not to make 
him a bone of contention, but to with- 

140 ORMOND. 

draw the poor child from tfee contest al- 
together, and strike his name out of the 
list of candidates, till the general question 
of admission for those of his persuasion 
should have been decided by the lady 

Onnond declared, with or without 
submission to Mrs, M'Crnle, that he 
could not think it becoming or gentle- 
manlike to desert a child, whom he had 
undertaken to befriend — that, whatever 
the child had the misfortune to be born, 
he would abide by him, and would not 
add to his misfortunes by depriving him 
of the reward of his own industry and 
application, and of the best chance he 
had of continuing his good education, 
and of getting forward in life. 

Mrs. M'Crule sighed and groaned — 

But Ormond persisted—" the child," 
he said, « should have fair play— the 
lady patronesses would decide as tbey 
thought proper." 

It had been said, that the boy kad Dr, 

OKMOND. 141 

Cambray's certificate, which Ormond 
was certain would not have been given 
undeservedly; he had also the certificate 
of his own priest. 

" Oh what signifies the certificate of 
his priest," interrupted Mrs. M'Crule— • 
" and as for Dr. Cambray's, though 
he is a most respectable man (too liberal, 
perhaps), yet without meaning to in- 
sinuate any thing derogatory — but we aU 
know how things are managed, and Dr. 
Cambray's great regard for Mr. Ornaond 
might naturally influence him a little in 
favour of this little protege, or whatever 
he was to Mr. Ormond.— Heaven for- 
bid, she should mean anything!" Mrs. 
M'Crule added, " or if she did, she 
certainly should not say, or hint even 
any thing in the present company." 

Florence was very busy in replenish- 
ing Mrs. M'Greggor's plate, and Ormond 
haughtily told Mrs. M'Crule; " that as 
to Dr. Cambray's character for impa*^ 
tiality, he should leave that securely to 

142 ORMOND. 

speak for itself; and that as to the rest, 
she was at liberty to say or hint whatever 
she pleased, as far as he was concerned, 
but that for her own sake, he would re- 
commend it to her to be sure of her facts 
— for that slander was apt to hurt in the 

Alarmed by the tone of confident in- 
nocence and determination with which 
Ormond spoke, Mrs M'Crule, who like 
all other bullies was a coward, lowered 
her voice, and protested she meant no- 
thing, — " certainly no offence to Mr. 
Ormond — and as to slander, there was 
nothing she detested so much — she was 
quite glad to be set right — for people did 
talk — and she had endeavoured to si- 
lence them, and now could from the best 

Ormond looked as if he wished that 
any authority could silence her — but no 
hopes of that. " She was sorry to find, 
however, that Mr. Ormond was posi- 
tively determined to encourage the boy, 

OBMOND. 143 

whoever he was, to persist as candidate 
on this occasion, she should be 
concerned to do any thing- that looked 
like opposing- him, yet she must, and 
she knew others were determined, and 
in short he would be mortified to no pur- 

" Well," Ormond said, " he could 
only do his best, and bear to be morti- 
fied, if necessary, or when necessary." 

A smile of approbation from Florence 
made his heart beat, and for some mo- 
ments Mrs. M-Crule spoke without his 
knuH-ing- one syllable she said. 

Mrs. M'Crule saw the smile, and' per- 
ceived the effect. — As she rose to depart, 
she turned to Miss Annaly, and whis- 
pered, but loud enough for all to hear — 

" Miss Annaly must excuse me if I 
warn her, that if she takes the part I 
am inclined to fear she will, on Saturday, 
people I know will draw inferences." 

Florence colouring* not a little, but 
with calm dignity and spirit, which 

144 ORMOND. 

Mrs. M'Crale did not expect from her 
usual gentleness and softness of manner, 
replied, that " no inference, which might 
be draw» from her conduct by any per- 
sons on earth, should prevent her from 
acting as she thought right, and taking 
that part which she thought just." 

So ended the visit, or the visitation. 
The next day Lady Annaly, Miss An- 
naly, Sir Herbert, and Ormond, went to 
Vicar's Vale, and thence with the good 
d>octor to the village school, on purpose 
that they might see and form an im- 
partial judgment of the little boy. On 
one (lay in the week, the parents and 
friends of the children were admitted, if 
th, y chose it, to the school room, to hear 
the lessons, and to witness the adjudging 
of the week's premiums. This was prize 
day as they called it, and Sheelah and 
Moriarty were among the spectators; 
Their, and the presence of Mr. 
Ormonde, so exeited — so over .excited 
Tommy,' that when he first stood up to 

ORMOND. 145 

read, his face flushed, his voice faltered, 
his little hands trembled, so much that 
he could hardly hold the book ; he could 
by no means turn over the leaf, and he 
was upon the point of disgracing himself 
by bursting into tears. 

" Oh ! ho !" cried an ill-natured voice 
of triumph from one of the spectators — 
Ormond and the Annalys turned, and 
saw behind them Mrs. M'Crule. 

" Murder!" whispered Sheelah to 
Moriarty, " if she fixes him with that 
■evil eye, and he gets the stroke of it, 
Moriarty, 'tis all over with him for life." 

" Tut woman, dear — what can hurt 
him — is not the good doctor in person, 
standing betwix him and harm — and 
see ! he is recovering upon it fast— quite 
come to ! — Hark! — he is himself again, 
— Tommy, voice and all!— success to 

He had success -and he deserved it — 
the prizes were his, and when they were 
given to him, the congratulating smiles 


146 GRMOND. 

of his companions shewed that Doctor 
Cambray's justice was u»K»pe&ebed by 
those whom it most concerned ; that not- 
withstanding all that had been said and 
done directly and indirectly, to counter- 
act his benevolent efforts, he had suc- 
ceeded in preve»ting envy and party- 
spirit inam spreading* discord among 
these innocent children. 

Mrs. M'Crule withdrew, and nobody 
saw when or how. 

" It is clears" said Lady. Annaly-, 
" that this boy is no favourite, for he has 

" Or if he be a favourite, and have 
friends, it is a proof that he has extraor- 
dinary merit," said Sir Herbert. 

" He is coming to us," said' Florence, 
who had been excessively interested for 
the child, and whose eyes had followed 
him wherever he went — " brother," whis- 
pered she, " will you let him pass you, 
he, wants to say something to Mr. Or- 

orm6nt>. 147 

Tlie boy brought to Ormond all the 
prizes which he had won since the time 
he first came to school ; his grandame, 
Sheelah, had kept them safe in a little 
basket, whicK he now put into Orinond's 
hands, with honest pride and pleasure. 

" I got 'em, and granny said, you'dlike 
to see thetif, so she did— aha here's what 
will please' you — see my certificates — see, 
signed by the Doctor himself 'sown Hand, 
arid father M'Cormuck, tKatVhis name, 
With his- blessing by the same token he- 
gave me." 

Ormond' looked with great satisfaction 
at Tommy's treasures, and Miss' Annaly 
looked' at them tdo, with no small delight! 

" Well, my boy, have you' any thing 
more to say," said Ormond to the child, 
who looked' as if he was anxious to say 
something more. 

« c I have, Sir— it's what'Pd be glad to 
speak a word With you," Mr. Harry." 

"- Speak it — then— you are not afraid 
of this lady?'" 

H 2 

148 ORMOND. 

" Oh no — that I am not," said the 
boy, with a very expressive smile and 

But as the child seemed to wish that 
no one else should hear, Ormond retired 
a step or two with him behind the crowd. 
Tommy would not let go Miss Annaly's 
hand, so she heard all that passed. 

" I am afeard I am too troublesome 
to you, Sir," said the boy. 

" To me — not the least," said Or- 
mond — " speak on — say out all you have 
In your mind." 

" Why then," said the child, " I have 
something greatly on my mind, because 
I heard granny talking to Moriarty about 
it last night, over the fire, and 1 in the 
bed — Then I know all about Mrs. 
M'Crule, and how, if I don't give out, 
and would'nt give up, about the grand 
school, on Saturday, I should, may be, be 
bringing you, Mr. Harry, into great 
trouble — so that being the case, I'll give 
up entirely — and I'll go back to the 

ORMOND. 1 49 

Black Islands to-morrow," said Tommy 
stoutly, yet swelling so in the chest that 
he could not say another word — He turned 
away. Ormond caught hold of him, and 
at the same instant Florence and he 
stooped to kiss the child — she drew back 
blushing — it was the happiest moment of 
Ormond's life. 

As they were walking home together 
from the school, Moriarty said to Shee- 

" I'll engage, Sheelah, you did not 
see all that passed the day." 

" I'll engage I did though," said 
Sheelah — " and by the same token, if 
you want one — little Tommy — and the- 
kiss he did not get." 

" Why then, Sheelah, you've quick 
eyes still." 

" Oh! I'm not so blind but what I 
could see that with half an eye — aye, 
and saw how it was with them before you 
did, Moriarty. From the first minute 
they corned into the room together, said 

1.50 ORMOND. 

I to myself, * there's a pair of angels 
well matched, if ever there was a pair on 
earth.' These things is all laid out 
above, unknownst to us, from the first 
minute we are born, mho we are to have 
in marriage," added Sheelaji. 

" No j not fixed from the first minute 
we are born, Sheelah: it is wo<," said 
Mori arty. 

" iVnd how should you know* Mo- 
viarty," said Sheelah, " whether or not?" 

" And why not as well as you, Shee- 
lah, dear ?" replied Moriarty, * if you go 
to ttiat." 

" Well, in the name of f^^ have 
Vi your Own way," said Sheelah; " and 
how do you think it is then ?" 

" Why it is partly fixed for us,'* said 
Moriarty j " but the choice is still in us, 

always — -" 

«« Oh ! burn me if I understand that," 
said Sheelah. 

" Then you are mighty hard of un- 
derstanding this morning, Sheelah. See 

ORMOND. 151 

now, with regard to Master Harry and 
Peggy Sheridan — it's my opinion, 'twas 
laid out from the first, that in case he 
did not do that wrong, about Peggy — then 
see, Heaven had this lady, this angel, 
from that time forward in view for him, 
by way of compensation for not doing 
the wrong he might have chose to do. 
Now, don't you think Sheelah, that's the 
way it was? — be a rasonable woman." 

The rasonable woman was puzzled and 
silent, Sheelah and Moriarty having got, 
without knowing it, to the dark depths 
of metaphysics. There was some danger 
of their knocking their heads against each 
other there, as wiser heads have done in 
similar circumstances. 

It was an auspicious circumstance for 
Ormond's love, that Florence had now a 
daily object of thought and feeling in 
common with him. Mrs. M'Crule's hav- 
ing piqued Florence was in Ormond's 
favour : it awakened her pride, and con- 
quered her timidity ; she ventured to 

152 ORMONB. 

trust her own motives. To be sure, the 
interest she felt for this child was un- 
commonly vivid ; but she might safely 
avow this interest — it was in the cause of 
one who was innocent, and who had been 

As Mrs. M'Crule was so vindictively 
busy, going about, daily, among the lady 
patronesses, preparing for the great battle 
that was to be decided on the famous 
Saturday, it was necessary, that Lady and 
Miss Annaly should exert themselves at 
least to make the truth known to their 
friends, to take them to see Dr. Cam- 
bray's school, and to judge of the little 
candidate impartially. The day for de- 
cision came, and Florence felt an anxiety, 
an eagerness, which made her infinitely 
more amiable and more interesting in 
Ormond's eyes. The election was de- 
cidedly in favour of humanity and justice. 
Florence was deputed to tell the decision 
to the successful little candidate, who 
was waiting, with his companions, to 

ORMOND, 153 

hear his fate. Radiant with benevolent 
pleasure, she went to announce the glad 

" Oh ! if she is not beautiful !" cried 
Sheelah, clasping her hands. 

Ormond felt it so warmly, and his looks 
expressed his feelings so strongly, that 
Florence, suddenly abashed, could scarce- 
ly finish her speech. 

If Mrs. M'Crule had been present she 
might again have cried "Oh! ho!" — 
but she had retreated, too much discom- 
fited by the disappointments of hatred, to 
stay even to embarrass the progress of 
love. Love had made ©f late rapid pro- 
gress. Joining in the cause of justice 
and humanity, mixing with all the vir- 
tues; he had taken possession of the 
heart happily, safely — unconsciously at 
first, yet triumphantly at last. 

Where was Colonel Albemarle all this 
time ? Ormond neither knew nor cared ; 
he thought but little of him at this mo- 
ment. However, said he to himself, 
h 3 

154 ORMOND. 

Colonel Albemarle will be here in a few 
days — it is better for me to see how things 
are there, before I speak — I am sure Flo- 
rence could not give me a decisive answer, 
till her brother has disentangled that bu- 
siness for her — Lady Annaly said as much 
to me the other day, if I understood her 
rightly — and 1 am sure this is the state 
of the case, from the pains Florence takes 
now to avoid giving me an opportunity 
of speaking to her alone, which 1 have 
been watching for so anxiously. So rea- 
soned Ormond ; but his reasonings, whe- 
ther wise or foolish, were set at nought 
by unforeseen events. 

ORMOND. 155 


ONE evening Ormond walked with Sir 
Herbert Annaly to the sea-shore, to look 
at the light-house which he was building. 
He was struck with all that had been done 
here in the course of a few months, and 
especially with the alteration in the ap- 
pearance of the people. Their counte- 
nances had changed from the look of 
desponding idleness and cunning, to the 
air of busy, hopeful independence. Or- 
mond could not help congratulating Sir 
Herbert, and warmly expressing a wish, 
that he mioht himself in the whole course 
of his life ever do half as much good as 
Sir Herbert had already accomplished. 
" Yon will do a great deal more," 

156 ORMOND. 

said Sir Herbert — " you will hare a 
great deal more time ; — I must make 
the best of the little — probably the very 
little time I shall have : while I yet live, 
let me not live in vain." 

" Yet live," said Ormond ; " I hope — 
I trust — you will live many years to be 
happy, and to make others so : — your 
strength seems quite re-established — you 
have all the appearance of health." 

Sir Herbert smiled, but shook his head. 

" My dear Ormond, do not trust to 
outward appearances too much. — Do not 
let my friends entirely deceive them- 
selves. — I know that my life cannot be 
long — I wish, before I die, to do as 
much good as I can." 

The manner in which these words were 
said, and the look with which they were 
accompanied, impressed Ormond at once 
with a conviction of the danger, forti- 
tude, and magnanimity of the person 
who spoke to him. The hectic colour, 
the brilliant eye, the vividness of fancy, 

ORMOND. 157 

the superiority of intellectual powers, the 
warmth of the affections, and the amiable 
gentleness of the disposition of this young 
roan, were, alas! but so many fatal indi- 
cations of his disease. The energy with 
which, with decreasing bodily, and in- 
creasing mental strength, he pursued his 
daily occupations, and performed more 
than every duty of his station ; the never- 
failing temper and spirits, with which 
he sustained the hopes of many of his 
friends, were but so many additional 
causes of alarm to the too experienced 
mother. Florence, with less experience, 
and with a temper happily prone to hope, 
was more easily deceived. She could 
not believe that a being, whom she saw 
so full of life, could be immediately in 
danger of dying. Her brother had now 
but a very slight cough — He had to all 
appearance recovered from the accident, 
by which they had been so much alarmed 
when they were in England. The physi- 
cians had pronounced, that with care 

158 ORMQNfc. 

to moid cold and all violent exertion, 
he might do well and last long. 

To fulfil the conditions was difficult ; 
especially that which required him to 
refrain from any great exertion. When- 
ever he could be of service to his friends, 
or do any good to his fellow creatures, 
he never spared himself either in mental 
or bodily exertion. Under the influence 
of benevolent enthusiasm, he continually 
forgot the precarious tenure, by which 
he held his life. 

It was now the middle of wipter, and 
one stormy night a vessel was wrecked 
on the coast near Annajy, — The house 
was at such a distance frpm that part 
of the shore where the vessel struck, 
that Sir Herbert knew nothing of it 
till the next morpipg, when it was all 
over. No liyes were lost. It was a 
small trading vessel richly laden. Know- 
ing the vile habits of some of the people 
who lived on the coast, Sir Herbert, 
the moment he heard that there was a 


wreck, went down to see that the pro- 
perty of the sufferers was protected from 
those depredators, who on those occa- 
sions were astonishingly alert. Ormond 
accompanied him, and by their joint 
exertions much of the property was 
placed in safety under a military guard. 
Some had been seized and carried off 
before their arrival, but not by any of 
Sir Herbert's tenants. It became pretty 
clear, that the neighbours on Sir Ulick 
O' Shane's estate were the offenders. 
They had grown bold from impunity, 
and from the belief that no jantleman 
" would chuse to interfere with them on 
account of their landlord." 

Sir Herbert's indignation rose— Or- 
mond pledged himself, that Sir Uliek 
O'Snane would never protect such 
wretches ; and eager to assist public jus- 
tice, to defend his guardian, and above 
all, to calm and prevent Sir Herbert 
from over-exerting himself, he insisted 
upon being allowed to go in his stead 

with the party of military, who were to 


160 ORMOND. 

search the suspected houses. — It was 
with some difficulty he prevailed. — He 
parted with Sir Herbert : and, struck 
at the moment with his highly raised 
colour, and the violent heat and state 
of excitation he was in, Ormond again 
urged him to remember his own health, 
and his mother and sister. 

" I will— I do," said Sir Herbert, " but 
it is my duty to think of public justice, 
before I think of myself." 

The apprehension Ormond felt in quit- 
ting Sir Herbert recurred frequently as 
he rode on in silence ; but he was called 
into action, and it was dissipated. Or- 
mond spent nearly three hours searching* 
a number of wretched cabins, from which 
the male inhabitants fled, at the approach 
of the military, leaving the women and 
children to make what excuses, and tell 
what lies they could. This the women 
and childi*en executed with great readi- 
ness, ability, and in the most pity-moving 
tones imaginable. 

The inside of an Irish cabin appears 

ORMOND. 161 

very different to those who come to 
claim hospitality, and to those who come 
to detect offenders. 

Ormond having never before entered 
a cabin with a search warrant, constable, 
or with the military, he was " not up to 
the thing" — as both the serjeant and con- 
stable remarked to each other. While 
he listened to the piteous story of a wo- 
man, about a husband who had broken 
his leg from a ladder, sawing the masons 
at Sir Herbert's light-house, and was 
lying at the hospital, not expected *; the 
husband was lying all the time with both 
his legs safe and sound in a potatoe fur- 
row, within a few yards of the house. — 
And the child of another eloquent matron 
was running off with a pair of silver 
mounted pistols taken from the wreck, 
which he was instructed to hide in 3!, 
bog-hole, snug — the bog-water never 
rusting. These pistols caught the at- 

* Not expected to live. 

162 GRMOND. 

tention of Ormond, but there were no 
traces to be found of them, nor of the 
little urchin who had carried them off. 
In one hovel — for the houses of these 
wretches who Jived by pillage, after all 
their ill-gotten gains, were no better than 
hovels ; — in one of them, in which, as 
the information stated, some valuable 
plunder was concealed, they found no- 
thing but a poor wgman groaning in 
bed, and two little children j one crying, 
as if its heart would break, and the other 
sitting up behind the mother's bolster 
supporting her. After the soldiers had 
searched every place in vain, even the 
thatch of the house, the woman shewing 
no concern all the while, but groaning 
on, seemed scarce able to answer Mr. Qr» 
mend's questions ; the constable, an old 
hand, roughly bid her get up, that they 
might search the bed ; — ^this Ormqnd 
would not permit :■<■— she lay still, thanking 
his honour faintly, and they quitted the 
house. The goods which they had car- 

obmond. \m 

ried off were valuable, and were hid in 
t]je straw of the very bed on which the 
woman was lying. 

As they were returning homewards 
after their fruitless search, when they had 
passed the boundary of Sir Ulick's, and 
had reached Sir Herbert's territory, they 
were overtaken by a man, who whis- 
pered something to the serjeant, which 
made him halt, and burst out a laughing ; 
the laugh, ran through the whole Ser- 
jeant's guard, and reached Ormond'a 
ears ; who, asking the cause of it, was 
told» how the woman had cheated them, 
and how she was now risen from her bed, 
and was dividing the prize among the 
lawful owners, " share and share alike." 
These lawful owners, all risen out of 
the potatoe furrows, and returning from 
the bogs, were now assembled, holding 
their bed of justice. At the moment the 
Serjeant's information came off, their 
captain, with a bottle of whiskey in his 
hand, was drinking — 

164 ORMOND. 

" To the health of Sir Ulick O'Shane, 
our worthy landlord ; seldom comes a 
better. The same to his ward, Harry 
Ormond, Esq. and may his eyesight 
never be better nor worse." 

Harry Ormond instantly turned his 
horse's head, much provoked at having 
been duped, and resolved that the plun- 
derers should not now escape. By the 
advice of Serjeants and constables, he 
dismounted, that no sound of horses' 
hoofs might give notice from a distance; 
though, indeed, on the sands of the sea- 
shore, no horses' tread, he thought, could 
be heard. He looked round for some 
one with whom he could leave his horse, 
but not a creature, except the men who 
were with him, was in sight. 

" What can have become of all the 
people," said Ormond, " it is not the 
workmen's dinner hour, and they are 
gone from the work at the light-house ; 
and the horses and cars are left without 
any one with them. He went on a few 

ORMOND. ]05 

paces, and saw a boy, who seemed to be 
left to watch the horses, and who looked 
very melancholy. The boy did not speak 
as Ormond came up. 

" What is the matter ?" said Ormond, 
" something dreadful has happened ?— 

" Did not you hear it, Sir," said the 
boy, " I'd be loth to tell it you— for I 
know who you are." 

" Has any thing- happened to—" 

" Sir Herbert— aye— the worst that 

could Running to stop one of them 

villains that was making off with some- 
thing from the wreck, he dropped sudden 
as if he was shot, and — when they went 
to lift him up — But you'll drop yourself, 
Sir," said the boy. 

" Give him some of the water out of 
the bucket, can't ye." 

" Here's my cap," said the serjeant. 
Ormond was made to swallow the 
water, and, recovering his senses, heard 
one of the soldiers near him say — . 


166 ORMOND. 

" 'Twas only a faint Sir Herbert 
took, 111 engage." 

The thought was new life to Of ttion'd, 
he started up, mounted' his horse', atld gal- 
loped off,— saw no creature on the road — 
found a crowd at the gate of the avenue 
— the crowd opened to let him pass, 
many voices calling as he passed to beg 
him to send out word. This gave him 
fresh hopes, since nothing certain' was 
known— he spurred on his horse— but 
when he reached the house, as he was 
going to Sir Herbert's room he was 
met by Sir Herbert's ownman; O'Reilly. 
The moment he saw O'Reilly's face, he 
knew there was no hope'— he asked no 
question — the surgeon came out, and 
told him that in consequence of having 
broke a blood vessel, which bled inter- 
nally, Sir Herbert had just expired. 
His mother and sister were with him — 
Ormond retired — he begged the servants 
would write to hinrat Dr. Cambray's — 
and he went immediately. 

OHMOND. 167 

Two days after he had a note from 
O'Reilly, written m haste, at a very 
early hour in the morning-, to say that 
" he was just setting out with the hearse 
to the family burial'-place at Herbert — it 
having been thought best, that the fune- 
ral should not be in this neighbourhood, 
on account of the poor people at Aunaly 
being so exasperated against tfrose> who 
were thought to be the immediate occa- 
sion of his death. Sir Herbert's last 

erdiers to OHeilly were to this effect 

'* to take care, and to have every thin**- 

* to 

done as privately as possible." 

No pomp of funeral was, indeed, ne- 
cessary for such a person. The great 
may need it — the good need it not — 
they are mourned in the heart, and they 
are remembered without vain pageantry. 
— If public sorrow can soothe private 
grief — and surely in some measure it 
must — the family and friends of this 
young man had this consolation, but 
they had another and a better. 

168 ORMOND. 

It is the triumph of religion and of 
its ministers, to be able to support the 
human heart, when all other resources 
are of little avail. Time, it is true, at 
length effaces the recollection of misfor- 
tune, and age deadens the sense of 
sorrow. But that power to console is 
surely far superior in its effect, more 
worthy of a rational and of a social 
being, which operates not by contract- 
ing or benumbing our feelings and facul- 
ties, but by expanding and ennobling 
them, inspiring us not with stoic indif- 
ference to the pains and pleasures of 
humanity, but with pious submission to 
the will of Heaven, to the order, and 
orderer of the universe. 




THOUGH Sir Ulick O'Shane con- 
trived to laugh on most occasions, where 
other people would have wept, and, 
though he had pretty well case-hardened 
his heart, yet he was shocked by the 
first news of the death of Sir Herbert 
Annaly. He knew the man must die, 
he said, — so must we all, sooner or later, 
but for the manner of his death, Sir 
Ulick could not help feeling a secret 
pang. It was he who had encouraged, 
or at least connived at, the practices of 
those wretches, who roused the generous 
and just indignation of Sir Herbert, and 
in pursuit of whom this fine young man 
fell a sacrifice. 

vol. in. * 

170 ORMOKD. 

Not only " the still small voice," but 
the cry of the country was against Sir 
Ulick on this occasion. He saw that 
he must give up the offenders, and shew 
decidedly, that he desired to have them 
punished. Decidedly, then, and easily, 
as ever prince abandoned secretary or 
chancellor to save his own popularity, 
quickly as ever grand seignior gave up 
grand vizier or chief baker to appease 
the people, Sir Ulick gave up his " ho- 
nest rascals" his " rare rapparees" and 
even his i: wrecker royal." Sir Ulick 
set his magistrate, Mr. M'Crule, at work 
for once on the side both of justice and 
law ; warrants, committals, and consta- 
bles, cleared the land. Many fled, — a 
few were seized, escorted ostentatiously 
by a serjeant and twelve of Sir Ulick's 
corps, and lodged in the county jail to 
stand their trial, bereft of all favour and 
protection, bona fide delivered up to 

A considerable tract of Sir Ulick's 

OUMOND. 171 

coast estate, in consequence of this, re- 
mained untenanted. Some person in 
whom he could confide must be selected, 
to inhabit the fishing- lodge, and to take 
care of the cabins and land till they should 
be reset. Sir Ulick pitched upon Mo- 
riarty Carroll for this purpose, and pro- 
mised him such liberal reward, that all 
Moriarty 's friends congratulated him 
upon his " great luck in getting the ap- 
pointment against the man, too, that Mr. 
Marcus had proposed and favoured." 

Marcus, who was jealous in the ex- 
treme of power, and who made every 
tri8e a matter of party competition, was 
vexed at the preference given against 
an honest man and a friend of his own, 
in favour of Moriarty, a catholic; a 
fellow he had always disliked, and a 
protege of Mr. Ormond's. Ormond all 
the time, though obliged to Sir Ulick for 
his kindness to Moriarty, was too intent 
on other things, to think much about the 
matter. When he should see Florence 
J 2 

172 ORMOND. 

Annaly again, seemed to him the only 
question in. the universe of great im- 

Weak passions, it has been observed, 
are weakened, strong passions strength- 
ened by absence. 

Just at this time arrived letters for 
Mr. Ormond from Paris, from M. and 
Madame de Connal j very kind Ietters> 
with pressing invitations to him to pay 
them a visit. M. de Connal informed 
him, " that the five hundred pounds, king 
Corny's legacy, was ready waiting his 
orders. M. de Connal hoped to put it into 
Mr. Ormond's hands in Paris in his own 
hotel, where he trusted that Mr. Ormond 
would do him the pleasure of soon oc- 
cupying the apartments which were pre- 
paring for him." It did not clearly 
appear, whether they had or had not 
heard of his accession of fortune. Dora's 
letter was not from Dora — it was from 
Madame de Connal. It was on green 
paper, with a border of Cupids and roses, 

ORMOND. 173 

and store of sentimental devices in the 
corners. The turn of every phrase, the 
style, as far as Ormond could judge, was 
quite French — aiming evidently at be- 
ing perfectly Parisian. Yet it was a 
letter so flattering to the vanity of man, 
as might well incline him to excuse the 
vanity of woman. " Besides, really," 
as Sir Ulick O'Shane observed, " after 
making due deductions for French sen- 
timent, there remains enough to satisfy 
an honest English heart, that the lady 
really desires to see you, Ormond ; and 
that now, in the midst of her Parisian 
prosperity, she has the grace to wish to 
shew kindness to her father's adopted 
son, and to the companion and friend of 
her childhood."— Sir Ulick was of opi- 
nion, that Ormond could not do better 
than accept the invitation. Ormond 
was surprised, for he well recol- 
lected the manner in which his guar- 
dian had formerly, and not many 
months ago, written and spoken of 

174 ORMOM). 

Conn al as a coxcomb, and something 
m orse. 

" That is true," said Sir Ulick, " but 
that was when 1 was angry about vour 
legacy, which was of great consequence 
to us then, though of none now — I cer- 
tainly did suspect the man of a design to 
cheat vou, but it is clear I was wronaf — 
I am ready candidly to acknowledge, 
that I did him injustice. Your money 
is at your order — and I have nothing to 
say, but to beg M. de Connal ten thou- 
sand French pardons — Observe, I do 
not beg pardon for calling him a cox- 
comb, for a coxcomb he certainly is." 

" An insufferable coxcomb !" cried 

" But a coxcomb in fashion" said Sir 
Ulick ; " and a coxcomb in fashion is a 
useful connexion. He did not fabie 
about Versailles — 1 have made particu- 
lar inquiries from our embassador at 
Paris, and he writes me word, that Con- 
nal is often at court — en bonne ockur, at 

ORMOND. 175 

Versailles. The embassador says, he 
meets the Connals every where in the 
first circles — how they got there I don't 

" I am glad to hear that for Dora's 
sake," said Ormond. 

" I always thought her a sweet, pretty 
little creature," said Sir Ulick — " and no 
doubt she has been polished up; and 
dress and fashion make such a difference 
in a woman, — I suppose she is now ten 
times better — that is, prettier — she will 
introduce you at Paris, and your own 
merit, that is, manners, and figure, and 
fortune, will make your way every 
where. — By the by, I do not see a word 
about poor Mademoiselle — Oh, yes, here 
is a line squeezed in at the edge — * Mille 
tendres souvenirs, de la part de Ma- 
demoiselle O'Faley.' " 

*' Poor Mademoiselle !" 

"Poor Mademoiselle!" repeated Sir 

" Do you mean that thing half Irish, 

176 ORMOND. 

half French, halftnud, half tinsel?" said 

*' Very good memory ! very sly, 
Harry ! but still in the Irish half of her 
I dare say there is a heart, and we must 
allow her the tinsel, in pure gratitude; fo* 
having taught you to speak French so 
well — that will be a real advantage to 
you in Paris." 

" Whenever I go there, Sir," said 
Ormond, coldly. 

Sir Ulick was very much disappointed 
at perceiving) that Ormond had no mind 
to go to Paris ; but dropping the sub- 
ject, he turned the conversation upoa 
the Annalys — he praised Florence to the 
skies, hoped that Ormond would be mor$ 
fortunate than Marcus had been, for 
some how or other he should never live or 
die in peace till Florence Annaly was 
more nearly connected with him. He 
regretted, however, that poor Sir Her- 
bert was carried off before he had com- 
pleted the levying of those fines, which 

ORMOND. 177 

would have cut off the entail, and barred 
the heir at law from the Herbert estates. 
Florence was not now the great heiress 
it was once expected she should be, indeed 
she had but a moderate gentlewoman's 
fortune — not even what at Smithfield a 
man of Ormond's fortune might expect ; 
but Sir Ulick knew, he said, that this 
would make no difference to his ward, 
unless to make him in greater impatience 
to propose for her. 

It was impossible to be in greater im- 
patience to propose for her than Ormond 
was. Sir Ulick did not wonder at it; 
but he thought that Miss Annaly would 
not, could not, listen to him yet. Titne, 
the comforter, must come first, and while 
time was doing his business, love could 
not decently be admitted. 

" That was the reason," said Sir 
Ulick, returning by another road to the 
charge, " why I advised a trip to Paris j 
but you know best." 

** I cannot bear this suspense, and I 

178 ORMOND. 

mast and will know my fate — I will write 
instantly and obtain an answer." 

" Do so ; and to save time, I can tell 
what your fate and your answer will be : 
from Florence Annaly, assurance of per- 
fect esteem and regard, as far as friend- 
ship, perhaps ; but she will tell you, that 
she cannot think of love at present. Lady 
Annaly, prudent Lady Annaly, will say, 
that she hopes Mr. Ormond will not think 
of settling for life till he has seen some- 
thing more of the world. Well, you 
don't believe me," said Sir Ulick, inter- 
rupting himself just at the moment when 
he saw that Ormond began to think there 
was some sense in what he was saying. 

" If you don't believe me, Harry," 
continued he, " consult your oracle, Dr. 
Catnbray, he has just returned from An- 
naly, and he can tell you how the land 

Dr. Cambray agreed with Sir Ulick, 
that both Lady Annaly and her daughter 
would desire, that Ormond should see 

ORMOND. 171) 

more of the world before he settled for 
life ; bat as to going off to Paris, without 
waiting to see' or write to them, Dr. 
Cambvay agreed with Ormond, that it 
would be the worst thing he could do — 
that so far from appearing a proof of his 
respect to their grief, it would seem only 
a proof of indifference, or a sign of impa- 
tience — they wouM conclude, that he was 
in haste to leave his friends in adversity, 
to go to those in prosperity, and to enjoy 
the gaiety and dissipation of Paris. Dr. 
Cambray advised, that he should remain 
quietly where he was, and wait till Miss 
Annaly should be disposed to see him. 
This was most prudent, .Ormond allowed. 
" But then the delay ;" to conquer by 
delay we must begin by conquering our 
impatience^ — now, that was what our hero 
could not possibly do. Therefore, he 
jumped hastily to this conclusion, that — 
" in love affairs no man should follow any 
mortal's opinion but his own." 

Accordingly he sat down and wrote to 

180 ORMOND. 

Miss Annaly a most passionate letter, 
enclosed >in a most dutiful epistle to Lady 
Annaly, as full of respectful attachment 
and entire obedience as a son-in-law 
expectant covdd devise — beginning very 
properly, and very sincerely, with anxiety 
and hopes about her ladyship's health, 
and ending, as properly, and as sincerely, 
with hopes that her ladyship would per- 
mit him, as soon as possible, to take from 
her the greatest, the only remaining 
source of happiness she had in life — her 

Having worded this very plausibly- — 
for he had now learned how to write a 
letter— our hero dispatched a servant of 
Sir Ulick's with his epistle, with orders 
to wait certainly for an answer; but above 
all things, to make haste back. Accord- 
ingly the man took a cross road, a short 
cut, and coming to a broken bridge, 
which he did not know was down till he 
was close upon it, he was obliged to go 
back and go round, and did not get home 



till long- after dark night-— and the only 
answer he brought was, there was no 
answer, only Lady Annaly's compliments. 

Ormond could scarcely believe that no 
answer had been sent ; but the man took 
all the saints in Heaven, or in the calen- 
dar, to witness, that he would not tell his 
honour, or any junUeman, a lie. 

Upon a cross-examination, the man 
gave proof that he had actually seen both 
the ladies. They were sitting- so and so, 
and dressed so and so, in mourning-. 
Further, he g*ave undeniable proof that 
he had delivered the letters, and that 
they had been opened and read ; for — 
hy the same token — he was summoned up 
to my lady on account of one of Mr. 
Ormond's letters he did not know which, 
or to mho, being dated Monday, whereas 
it was Wednesday ; and he had to clear 
himself of haying been three days on the 

Ormond, inordinately impatient, could 
not rest a moment. The next morning 

1 82 ORMOND. 

he set off full speed for Annaly, deter- 
mined to find out what was the matter. 

Arrived there — a new footman came 
to the door with " Not at home, Sir." 
Ormond could have knocked him down, 
but he contented himself with striking* 
his own forehead — however, in a genteel 
proper voice, he desired to see Sir Her- 
bert's own man, O'Reilly. 

" Mp. O'Reilly is not here, Sir : absent 
on business." 

Every thing was adverse. Ormond 
had one hope that this new fellow, not 
knowing him,, might by mistake have 
included him in a general order against 
morning visitors. 

** My name is Ormond, Sir." 

" Yes, Sir." 

" And I beg you- will let Lady An- 
naly and Miss Annaly know, that Mr. 
Ormond is come to pay his respects to 

The man seemed very unwilling to 
carry any message to his ladies. « He 

ORMOND. 183 

was sure," he said, <s that the ladies 
would not see any body ?" 

" Was Lady Annaly ill?" 

** Her ladyship had been but poorly, 
but was better within the last two days." 

" And Miss Annaly." 

" Wonderful better too, Sir ; has got 
up her spirits greatly to-day." 

" I am very glad to hear it," said 
Orniond. " Pray, Sir, can you tell me 
whether a servant from Mr. Ormond 
brought a letter here yesterday." 

" He did, Sir." 

" And was there any answer sent ?'* 

" I really can't say, Sir." 

" Be so good to take my name to 
your lady," repeated Ormond. 

" Indeed, Sir, I don't like to go in, 
for I know my lady — both my ladies is 
engaged, very particularly engaged — 
however, if you very positively desire it, 

Ormond did very positively desire it, 
and the footman obeyed. While Or- 

184 ORMOND. 

mond was waiting- impatiently for the 
answer, his horse, as impatient as himself, 
would not stand still. A groom, who had 
been playing at ball with the footman 
in the yard, saw the uneasiness of the 
horse; observing that it was occasioned 
by a peacock, who, with spread tail, was 
strutting in the sunshine, he ran aad 
chased the bird away. Ormond thank- 
ing the groom, threw him a luck token, 
and not recollecting his face, asked how 
long he had been at Annaly. 

" I think you were not here when I 
was here last ?" said Orrnond. 

" No, Sir," said the man, looking a 
little puzzled; " [ never was here till 
the day before yesterday in my born 
days. We bees from England." 

" We!" 

" That is I and master— that is master 
and 1." 

Ormond grew pale; but the groom 
saw nothing of it—his eyes had fixed 
upon Ormond's horse. 

ORMONB. 186 

*< A very fine horse this ofy ours, Sir, 
for sartain, if he could but stand, Sir; 
he's main restless at a door. My master's 
horse is just his match for that." 

" And pray who is your master, Sir?" 
said Ormond, in a voice which he forced 
to be calm, 

" My master, Sir, is one Colonel Albe- 
marle, son of the famous General Albe- 
marle ; as lost his arm, Sir — you might 
have heard talk of, time back," said the 

At this moment a window-blind was 
flapped aside, and before the wind blew 
it back to its place again, Ormond saw 
Florence Annaly sitting on a sofa, and a 
gentleman, in regimentals, kneeling at 
her feet. 

*' Bless my eyes!" cried the groom, 
" what made you let go his bridle, Sir — 
only you sat him well, Sir, he would ha' 
thrown you that minute — Curse the blind! 
that flapped in his eyes." 

The footman re-appeared on the steps. 

186 ohm on d. 

" Sir, it is just as I said — I could not be 
let in. Mrs. Spencer, my lady's woman, 
says the ladies is engaged — you can't see 

Ormond had seen enough. 

" Very well, Sir," said he, " Mr. Or- 
mond's compliments — he called, that's 

Ormond put spurs to his horse and 
galloped off, and fast as he went, he urged 
his horse stiil faster. 

In the agony of disappointed love and 
jealousy, he railed bitterly against the 
whole sex, and against Florence Annaly 
in particular. Many were the rash vows 
he made, that he would never think of 
her more ! — that he would tear her from 
his heart — that he would shew her that 
he was no whining lover, no easy dupe, 
to be whiffled off and on, the sport of a 

" A coquet !— . is it possible, Florence 
Annaly !— You— and after all !" 

Certain tender recollections obtruded : 

ORMOND. 187 

but he repel'ed them, he would not allow 
one of them to mitigate his rag-e. His 
naturally violent passion of anger, now 
that it broke again from the controul of 
his reason, seemed the more ungovernable 
from the sense of past and the dread of 
future restraint. 

So, when a horse natural'y violent, half 
trained to the curb, takes fright, or takes 
offence, and, starting, throws his master, 
away he gallops; enraged the more by 
the falling bridle, he rears, plunges, 
curvets, and lashes out behind at broken 
girth or in; aginary pursuer. 

" Good Heavens ! what is the matter 
with yon, my dear boy ? — what has hap- 
pened ?" cried Sir Ulick the moment he 
saw him, for the disorder of Ormond's 
mind appeared strongly in his face and 
gestures — still more strongly in his words. 

When he attempted to give an accouut 
of what had happened, it was so broken, 
so exclamatory, that it was wonderful 
how Sir Ulick made out the plain fact* 

188 ORMOND. 

Sir Ulick, however, well understood the 
short-hand language of the passions ; he 
listened with eager interest — he sympa- 
thized so fully with Ormond's feelings — 
expressed such astonishment, such indig- 
nation, that Harry, feeling him to be his 
warm friend, loved him as heartily as in 
the days of his childhood. 

Sir Ulick saw and seized the advan- 
tage — he had almost despaired of accom- 
plishing his purpose, now was the critical 

" Harry Ormond," said he, " would 
you make Florence Annaly feel to the 
quick — would you make her repent in 
sackcloth and ashes — would you make 
her pine for you, aye! till her very heart 
is sick ?" 

t( Would I ? to be sure — shew me how! 
— only shew me how!" cried Ormond. 

" Look ye, Harry — to have and to hold 
a woman — trust me — for I have had and 
held many ! — to have and to hold a wo- 
man, you must first shew her that you 

ORMOND. 189 

can, if you will, fling her from you, aye ! 
and leave her there — set off for Paris to- 
morrow morning — My life upon it, the 
moment she hears you are gone, she will 
wish you back again." 

" I'll set off to-night/' said Ormond, 
ringing the bell to give orders to his ser- 
vant to prepare immediately for his de- 

Thus Sir Ulick, seizing precisely the 
moment when Ormond's mind was at the 
right heat, aiming with dexterity, and 
striking with force, bent and moulded 
him to his purpose. 

While preparations for Ormond's jour- 
ney were making, Sir Ulick said that 
there was one thing he must insist upon 
his doing before he quitted Castle Her- 
mitage — he must look over and settle his 
guardianship accounts. 

Ormond, whose head was far from bu- 
siness at this moment, was very reluctant; 
he said that the accounts could wait till 
he should return from France; but Sir 

190 ORMOND. 

Ulick said that if he, or if Ormond, were 
to die, leaving the thing unsettled, it 
would be loss of property to the one, and 
loss of credit to the other. Ormond then 
begged that the accounts might be sent 
after him to Paris ; he would look over 
them there at leisure, and sign them. 
No, Sir Ulick said, they ought to be 
signed by some forthcoming witness in 
this country. He urged it so much, and 
put it upon the footing of his own credit 
and honour in such a manner, that Or- 
mon.d could not refuse. He seized the 
papers, and took a pen to sign them ; 
but Sir Ulick snatched the pen from his 
hand, and absolutely insisted upon his 
first knowing what he was going to sign. 

" The whole account could have been 
looked over while we have been talking 
about it," said Sir Ulick: 

Ormond sat down and looked it over, 
examined all the vouchers, saw that every 
thing was perfectly right and fair, signed 
the accounts, and esteemed Sir Ulick the 


OKMOKl). 191 

more for having insisted upon shewing, 
and proving, that all was exact. 

Sir Ulick offered to manage his affairs 
for him while he was away, particularly 
a lar^e sum which Ormond had in the 
English funds. Sir Ulick had a banker 
and a broker in London, on whom he 
could depend, and he had, from his place 
and connexions, &c. means of obtaining 
good information in public affairs; he 
had made a great deal himself by spe- 
culations in the funds, and he could buy 
in and sell out to great advantage, he 
said, for Ormond. But for this purpose 
a letter of attorney was necessary to be 
given by Ormond to Sir Ulick. 

There was scarcely time to draw one 
up, nor was Sir Ulick sure that there 
was a printed form in the house. Luckily, 
however, a proper power was found, and 
filled up, and Ormond had just time to 
sign it before he stepped into the car- 
riage; he embraced his guardian, and 
thanked him heartily for his care of the 

192 ORMOND. 

interests of his purse, and still more for 
the sympathy he had shewn in the in- 
terests of his heart. Sir Ulick was moved 
at parting with him, and this struck 
Harry the more, because he certainly 
struggled to suppress his feelings. Or- 
mond stopped at Vicar's Vale to tell 
Dr. Cambray all that had happened, to 
thank him and his family for their kind- 
ness, and to take leave of them. 

They were indeed astonished when he 
entered, saying- — 

" Any commands, my good friends, 
for London or Paris, 1 am on my way 
there — carriage at the door." 

At first, they could not believe him to 
be serious; but when they heard his 
story, and saw by the agitation of his 
manner, that he was in earnest, they 
were still more surprised at the sudden- 
ness of his determination. They all be- 
lieved and represented to him that there 
must be some mistake, and that he was 
not cool enough to judge sanely at this 

ORMOND. 193 

Dr. Cambray observed, that Miss An- 
naly could not prevent any man from 
kneeling to her. Ormond haughtily said, 
" he did not know what she could prevent, 
he only knew what she did. She had not 
vouchsafed an answer to his letter — she 
had not admitted him. These he thought 
were sufficient indications, that the person 
at her feet was accepted. Whether he 
were or not, Ormond would inquire no 
farther. She might now accept or re- 
fuse, as she pleased — he would go to 

His friends had nothing more to say 
or to do but to sigh, and to wish him a 
good journey, and much pleasure at Paris. 

Ormond now requested, that Dr. Cam- 
bray would have the goodness to write to 
him from time to time, to inform him of 
whatever he might wish to know, during 
his absence. He was much mortified to 
hear from the doctor, that he was obliged 
to remove, with his family, for some 
months, to a distant part of the north of 


194 ORMOND. 

England ; and that, as to the Annalys, 
they were immediately removing to the 
sea coast of Devonshire, for the benefit 
of a mild climate, and of sea bathing. 
Ormond, therefore, had no resource but 
1 n his guardian. Sir Ulick's business, 
however, was to take him over to Lon- 
don, from whence Ormond could not ex- 
pect much satisfactory intelligence with 
respect to Ireland. 

Ormond flew to Dublin, crossed the 
channel in an express boat, travelled 
night and day in the mail to London, 
from thence to Dover — crossed the water 
in a storm, and travelled with the utmost 
expedition to Paris, though there was no 
one reason why he should be in haste ; and 
for so much, his travelling was as little 
profitable or amusing as possible. He 
saw, heard, and understood nothing, till 
he got to Paris. 

It has been said, that the traveller with- 
out sensibility may travel from Dan to 
Beer-Sheba without finding any thing 

OKMOND. 195 

worth seeing. The traveller who has 
too much sensibility observes often as 
little — of this all persons must be sensible, 
who have ever travelled when their minds 
were engrossed with painful feelings, or 
possessed by any strong passion. 

<v 2 

196 ORMOND. 


ORMOND had written to Monsieur et 
Madame de Connal, to announce his 
intentions of spending some time in 
Paris — to thank them for their invitation 
to their house, an invitation which, how- 
ever, he declined accepting, but re- 
quested Monsieur de Connal to secure 
apartments for him in some hotel near 

Upon his arrival, he found every thing 
prepared for a Milord Anglois — hand- 
some apartments — a fashionable car- 
riage, well powdered laquais, and a 
valet de chambre, waited the orders of 

Connal was with him a few minutes 

ORMOND. 197 

after his arrival — welcomed him to Paris 
with cordial gaiety, was more glad, and 
more sorry, and said more in five mi- 
nutes, and above all made more protesta- 
tations of regard, than an Englishman 
would make in a year. 

" He was rejoiced ! delighted ! en- 
chanted to see Mr. Ormond. — Madame 
de Connal was absolutely transported 
with joy, when she heard he was on his 
road to Paris. Madame was now at 
Versailles — but she would return in a 
few days — she would be in despair at 
Mr. Ormond's not accepting the apart- 
ments in the Hotel de Connal, which 
were actually prepared for him. — But» 
in fact it was nearly the same thing, with- 
in two doors of them. — He hoped Mr. 
Ormond liked his apartments — but in 
truth that was of little consequence, for 
he would never be in them, except when 
he was asleep or dressing." 

Ormond thought the apartments quite 
superb, and was going to have thanked 

198 ORMOND. 

Monsieur de Connal for the trouble he 
had taken, but at the word superbe, Con- 
nal ran on again with French vivacity 
of imagination. 

" Certainly, Mr. Ormond ought," he 
said, <c to have every thing now in the 
first style." He congratulated our hero 
on his accession of fortune, " of which 
Madame de Connal and he had heard with 
inexpressible joy. And Mademoiselle 
O'Fale) too, she who had always prophe- 
sied, that they should meet in happiness 
at Paris, was now absolutely in ex- 

" You have no idea, in short, my dear 
Ormond, of what a strong impression 
you left in all our minds, no conception 
of the lively interest you always in. 

It was a lively interest, which had 
slumbered quietly for a considerable time, 
but now it wakened with perfectly good 
grace. — Ormond set little value on these 
sudden protestations, and his pride felt 

ORMOKD. 199 

a sort of fear, that it should be supposed 
he was deceived by them. — Yet, al- 
together, the manner was agreeable, 
and Connal was essentially useful at 
this moment ; as Sir Ulick had just- 
ly observed, a coxcomb in fashion may, 
in certain circumstances, be a useful 

" But my dear fellow," cried Connal, 
" what savage cut your hair last? — It is 
a sin to trust your fine head to the bar- 
barians — my hair dresser shall be with 
you in the twinkling of an eye, I will 
send my taylor — allow me to chuse your 
embroidery, and see your lace, before 
you decide — I ana said to have a tolera- 
ble taste, — the ladies say so, and they 
are always best judges. — The French 
dress will become you prodigiously, \ 
foresee — but, just Heaven!— what buckles! 
— those must have been had before the 
flood, — no disparagement to your taste, 
what could you do better in the Black 
Islands. Paris is the only place for bi- 

200 ORMOND. 

jouterie — except in steel, Paris surpasses 
the universe — your eyes will be dazzled 
by the Palais Royal. But this hat! — 
you know it can't appear — it would de- 
stroy you — my chapel ier shall be with 
you instantly. — It will all be done in five 
minutes — you have no idea of the ce- 
lerity with which you may command 
every thing at Paris. — But I am so sorry 
that Madame is at Versailles, and that I 
am under a necessity of being there my- 
self to-morrow for the rest of this week 
— but I have a friend, a little abbe, who 
will be delighted in the mean time to 
shew you Paris." 

From the moment of his arrival at 
Paris, Ormond resolved to put Florence 
Annaly completely out of his thoughts, 
and to drown in gaiety and dissipation 
the too painful recollection of her du- 
plicity towards him. Ormond was glad 
that he should have a few days to look 
about him, and to see something of 

ORMOND. 201 

He should like, as he told M. Connal, 
to go to the play to accustom himself to 
the language. — He must wear off his 
English or Irish awkwardness a little, 
before he should be presented to Ma- 
dame de Connal, or appear in French 

A profusion of compliments followed 
from Monsieur de Connal— but Ormond 
persisting — it was settled that he should 
go incog this night to the Theatre Fran- 

Connal called upon him in the evening, 
and took him to the theatre. 

They were in une petite loge, where 
they could see without being seen. In 
the box with them was the young abbe, 
and a pretty little French actress, Made- 
moiselle Adrienne. At the first coup d'oeil, 
the French ladies did not strike him as 
handsome, they looked as he said like 
dolls, all eyes and rouge ; and rouge, as 
he thought, very unbecomingly put on in 
one frightful red patch or plaister, high 
K 3 

202 ORMOND. 

upon the cheek, without any pretence 
to imitate natural colour. 

" Eh fi done !" said the abbe, " what 
you call the natural colour, that would 
be rouge coquette, which no woman of qua- 
lity can permit herself." 

" No, Dieu merci," said the actress, 
" that is for us — 'tis very fair we should 
have some advantages in the competi- 
tion, they have so many — by birth — if 
not by nature." 

M. Connal explained to Ormond, " that 
the frightful red patch, which offended 
his eye, was the mark of a woman of 
quality— women only of a certain rank 
have the privilege of wearing their rouge 
in that manner — your eye will soon 
grow accustomed to it, and you will like 
it as a sign of rank and fashion." 

The actress shrugged her shoulders, 
said something about " la belle nature" 
and the good taste of Monsieur l'Anglois. 
— The moment the curtain drew up, she 
told him the names of all the actors and 
actresses as they appeared—noting the 

ORMOND. 203 

value and celebrity of each. The play 
was, unfortunately for Ormond, a tra- 
gedy ; and Le Kain was at Versailles. 
Ormond thought he understood French 
pretty well, but he did not comprehend 
what was going on. The French tone 
of tragic declamation, so unnatural to 
his ear, distracted his attention so much, 
that he could not make out the sense 
of what any of the actors said. 

" 'Tis like the quality rouge," said 
Connal ; — " your taste must be formed 
to it, — But your eye and your ear will 
accommodate themselves to both. — You 
will like it in a month." 

M. de Connal said this was always 
the first feeling of foreigners. — " But 
take patience," said he, " go on listening, 
and in a night or two, perhaps in an 
hour or two, you will find the sense will 
break in upon you all at once. You 
will never find yourself at a loss in so- 
ciety. — Talk, at all events, whether you 
speak ill or well. Talk— don't aim at 

204 ORMOND. 

correctness — we don't expect it. Be- 
sides, as they will tell you, we like to 
see how a stranger ' plays with our 
language.' " 

M. de Connal's manner was infinitely 
more agreeable towards Ormond now, 
than in former days. 

There was perhaps still at the bottom 
of his mind the same fund of self-conceit, 
but he did not take the same arrogant 
tone. It was the tone not of a superior 
to an inferior, but of a friend, in a new 
society, and a country to which he is a 
stranger. There was as little of the 
protector in his manner as possible, con- 
sidering his natural presumption, and 
his acquired habits ; considering that he 
had made his own way in Paris, and 
that he thought, to be the first man in 
a certain circle at Paris was to be nearly 
the first man in the universe. The next 
morning, the little abb6 called to pay 
his compliments, and offer his services. 
M. de Connal being obliged to go to 

ORMOND. 205 

Versailles, — in his absence, the abbe 
would be very happy, he said, to attend 
Mr. Ormond, and to shew him Paris : 
he believed, he humbly said, that he had 
the means of shewing him every thing 
that was worth his attention. 
Away they drove. 

" Gare ! gare !" cried the coachman, 
chacing away the droves of walkers be- 
fore him. There being no foot-paths in 
the streets of Paris, they were continually 
driven up close to the walls. 

Ormond at first shrunk frequently at 
the sight of their peril and narrow es- 

" Monsieur apparemment is nervous 
after his voyage P" said the abb6. 

" No, but I am afraid the people will 
be run over. — I will make the coachman 
drive more quietly." 

" Du tout! — not at all," said the little 
abbe, who was of a noble family, and 
had all the airs of it. — " Leave him to 
settle it with the people, they are used to 
it. — And, after all, what have they to 

206 ORMOND. 

think of but to take care of themselves — 
la canaille." 

" La canaille" — synonymous with the 
swinish multitude, an expression of con- 
tempt, for which the Parisian nobility 
have since paid terribly dear. 

Ormond, who was not used to it, found 
it difficult to abstract his sympathy from 
his fellow creatures, by whatever name 
they were called j and he could not ex- 
clusively command his attention, to ad- 
mire the houses and churches which his 
abbe continually pointed out to his at- 

He admired, however, the fine facade 
of the Louvre, — the Place de Louis XV, 
— the astonishingly brilliant spectacle of 
the Palais Royal, — Notre Dame, — a few 
handsome bridges, and the drives on the 

But in fact there was at that time 
much more to be heard, and less to be 
seen, than at present in Paris. Paris 
was not then as fine a city as it now is. 
Ormond, in his secret soul, preferred 

ORMOND. 207 

the bay of Dublin to all he then saw on 
the banks of the Seine. 

The little abbe was not satisfied with 
the paucity of his exclamations, and 
would have given him up, as un froid 
Anglois, — but that, fortunately, our young 
hero had each night an opportunity of 
redeeming- his credit. They went to the 
play j — he saw French comedy ! — he saw 
and heard Molet, and Madame de la 
Ruette : the abbe was charmed with 
his delight, his enthusiasm, his genuine 
enjoyment of high comedy, and his quick 
feeling of dramatic excellence. It was 
indeed perfection— beyond any thing of 
which Ormond could have formed an 
idea. Every part well performed — no- 
thing to break the illusion ! 

This first fit of dramatic enthusiasm 
was the third day at its height, when 
Connal returned from Versailles, and it 
was so strong upon him, and he was so 
full of Molet and Madame de la Ruette, 
that he could scarcely listen to what 

208 ORMOND. 

Connal said of Versailles, the king's 
supper, and Madame la Dauphine. 

" No doubt — he should like to see all 
that — but at all events he was positively 
determined so see Molet, and Madame 
de la Ruette, every night they acted." 

Connal smiled, and only answered — 
" Of course he would do as he pleased." 
But in the mean time, it was now Ma- 
dame de Connal's night for seeing com- 
pany, and he was to make his debut in 
a French assembly. 

Connal called for him early, that they 
might have a few minutes to themselves, 
before the company should arrive. 

Ormond felt some curiosity, a little 
anxiety, a slight flutter of the heart, at 
the thought of seeing Dora again. 

The arrival of her husband interrupted 
these thoughts. 

Connal took the light from the hands 
of Crepin, the valet, and reviewed Or- 
mond from head to foot. 

" Very well, Crepin ; — you have done 

ORMOND. 209 

your part, and Nature has done hers, 
for Monsieur." 

" Yes, truly," said Crepin, " Nature 
had done wonders for Monsieur; and 
Monsieur, now he is dressed, has really 
all the air of a Frenchman." 

"Quite Year commeilfaut! — l'air noble!" 
added Connal, and he agreed with Cre- 
pin in opinion, that French dress made 
an astonishing 1 difference in Mr. Ormond. 

" Madame de Connal I am sure will 
think so," continued Connal ; — " will see 
it with admiration — for she really has 
good taste. I will pledge myself for your 
success. — With that figure, with that 
air, you will turn many heads in Paris — 
if you will but talk enough. — Say every 
thing that comes into your head— don't 
be like an Englishman, always thinking 
about the sense — the more nonsense the 
better — trust me, — livrez vous — let your- 
self out — follow me and fear nothing," 
cried he, running down stairs, delighted 
with Ormond and with himself. 

210 ORMOND. 

He foresaw he should gain credit by 
producing such a man. — He really wish- 
ed that Ormond should succeed in French 
society, and that he should pass his time 
agreeably at Paris. 

No man could feel better disposed to- 
wards another. — Even if he should take 
a fancy to Madame, it was to the polite 
French husband a matter of indifference, 
except so far as the arrangement might, 
or might not, interfere with his own 

And these views ? — What were they ? 
— Only to win al! the young man's for- 
tune at play. A cela pres — excepting 

this he was sincerely Ormond's friend, 
ready to do every thing possible — de 
faire 1'impossible, to oblige and enter- 
tain him. 

Connal enjoyed Ormond's surprise at 
the magnificence of his hotel. After 
ascending a spacious staircase, and pass- 
ing through antichamber after anti- 
chamber, they reached the splendid sa- 

ORMOND. 211 

Ion, blazing with lights, reflected on all 
sides in mirrors, that reached from the 
painted ceiling to the inlaid floor. 

" Not a creature here yet — happily." 
" Madame begs," said the servant, 
" that Monsieur will pass on into the 

" Anybody with Madame ?" 
" No one but Madame de Clairville." 
" Only ramie iniime^ said Connal — 
'•' The bosom friend." 

" How will Dora feel? — How will it 
be with us both," thought Ormond, as 
he followed the light step of the hus- 

" Entrez ! — Entrez toujours." 
Ormond stopped at the threshold, and 
absolutely dazzled by the brilliancy of 
Dora's beauty, her face, her figure, her 
air so infinitely improved, so fashioned! — 
" Dora! — Ah ! Madame de Connal," 
cried Ormond. 

No French actor could have done it 
better than nature did it for him. 

212 ORMOND. 

Dora gave one glance at Ormond — 
pleasure, joy, sparkled in her eyes! — 
Then leaning on the lady who stood be- 
side her, almost sinking, Dora sighed* 
and exclaimed — 

" Ah ! Harry Ormond !" 

The husband vanished. 

" Ah ciel !" said l'amie intime, looking 
towards Ormond. 

" Help me to support her, Monsieur — 
while I seek l'eau de Cologne." 

Ormond, seized with sudden tremour, 
could scarcely advance. 

Dora sunk on the sofa, clasping her 
beautiful hands, and exclaiming — 

" The companion of my earliest days !" 

Then Ormond, excused to himself, 
sprang forward — 

" Friend of my childhood !" cried he — 
" Yes, my sister, — your father promised 
me this friendship — this happiness," said 
he, supporting her, as she raised herself 
from the sofa. 

" Ah ! I know it well, Monsieur — I 

ORMOND. 215 

understand it all," said Madame de 

" Ou est il ? 011 est il ?— Where is he, 
Monsieur Orraond ?" cried Mademoiselle, 
throwing open the door. " Ah ciel, com- 
me il est beau! A perfect Frenchman 
already ! And how much embellished by 
dress ! — Ah ! Paris for that. — Did I not 
prophesy? — Dora, my darling, do me 
the justice — But how seized ! — Comme 
vous voila saisi. — Here's l'amie with 
l'eau de Cologne. Ah ! my child, reco- 
ver yourself, for here is some one — the 
Comte de Jarillac it is, entering the sa- 

The promptitude of Dora's recovery 
was a new surprise to our hero. " Fol- 
low me," said she to him, and with Pa- 
risian ease and grace she glided into the 
salon to receive M. de Jarillac — presented 
OrmondtoM. le Comte — " Aoglois — Ir- 
landois — an English an Irish gentleman 
— The companion of her childhood," 
with the slightest, lightest tone of senti- 

214 ORMOND. 

ment imaginable; — and another count 
and another came, and a baron, and a 
marquis, and a duke, and Madame la 

Comtesse de , and Madame la Du- 

chesse ; and all were received with 

ease, respect, vivacity, or sentiment, 
as the occasion required ; — now advan- 
cing a step or two to mark empressement 
where requisite. Regaining always, im- 
perceptibly, the most advantageous situ- 
ation and attitude for herself. Present- 
ing Ormond to every one — quite intent 
upon him, yet appearing entirely occu- 
pied with every body else ; and, in short, 
never forgetting them, him, or herself 
for an instant. 

" Can this be Dora?" thought Or- 
mond, in admiration, yet in astonish- 
ment that divided his feelings. It was 
indeed wonderful to see how quickly, how 
completely, the Irish country girl had 
been metamorphosed into a French wo- 
man of fashion. 

And now surrounded by admirers, 



by adorers in embroidery, and blazino- 
with crosses and stars-^-she received les 
hommages — enjoyed le succes— accepted 
the incense, without bending too low or 
holding herself too high — not too sober, 
nor too obviously intoxicated. Vanity in 
all her heart, yet vanity not quite turning 
her head, not more than was agreeable 
and becoming — extending her smiles to 
all, and hoping all the time that Harry 
Ormond en\ied each. Charmed with 
him, for her early passion for him had re- 
vived in an instant. The first sight of 
his figure and air, the first glance in the 
boudoir had been sufficient. She knew, 
too, how well he would succeed at Paris, 
how many rivals she would have in a 
week — these perceptions, sensations, and 
conclusions, requiring so much time in 
slow words to express, had darted through 
Dora's head in one instant, had exalted 
her imagination, and touched her heart 
-^-as much as that heart could be touched. 
Ormond mean time breathed more 

216 ORMOND. 

freely, and recovered from his tremours. 
Madame de Connal, surrounded by 
adorers, and shining- in the salon, was 
not so dangerous as Dora half fainting in 
the boudoir ; — nor had any words that wit 
or sentiment could device power to please 
or touch him so much as the " Harry Or- 
monii /" which had burst naturally from 
Dora's lips. Now he began almost to 
doubt whether nature or art prevailed. — 
Now he felt himself safe at least, since he 
saw that it was only the coquet of the 
Black Islands transformed into the co- 
quet of the Hotel de Connal. The 
transformation was curious, was admi- 
rable j Ormond thought he could ad. 
mire without danger, and, in due time, 
perhaps gallant, with the best of them 
all, without feeling, without scruple. 

The tables were now arranging for 
play. The conversation he heard every 
where round him related to the good or 
bad fortune of the preceding mghts. Or- 
mond perceived, that it was the custom of 

ORMOND. 217 

the house to play every evening 1 , and the 
sentences that reached him about bets 
and debts confirmed the hint which his 
guardian had given him, that Connal 
played high. 

At present, however, he did not seem 
to have any design upon Ormond, he was 
engaged at the farther end of the room. 
He left Ormond quite to himself, and to 
Madame, and never once even asked 
him to play. 

There seemed more danger of his being 
left out, than of his being taken in. 

" Donnez moi le bras — Come with me, 
Monsieur Ormond" — said Mademoiselle, 
" and you shall lose nothing, — while they 
are settling about their parties, we can 
get one little moment's chat." 

She took him back to the boudoir. 
" I want to make you know your 
Paris," said she — " here we can see the 
whole world pass in review, and I shall 
tell you every thing- most necessary for 
you to know ; — for example — who is who 
vol. III. i. 

2 1 8 ORMOND. 

—and still more it imports you to know 
who and who are together." 

" Look at that lady, beautiful as the 
day, in diamonds." 

" Madame de Connal do you mean ?" 
said Ormond. 

" Ah! no; not her always!" — said 
Mademoiselle — " though she has the 
apple here, without contradiction," con- 
tinued Mademoiselle, still speaking 1 in 
English, which it was always her pride 
to speak to whoever could understand 

" Absolutely 1 — without vanity, though 
my niece, I may say it, she a perfect 
creature — and mise a ravir! — Did you 
ever see such a change for the best in 
one season. — Ah! Paris! — Did I not tell 
you well ? — And you felt it well yourself 
—you lost your head, I saw that, at first 
sight of her, a la Frangoise — the best 
proof of your taste and sensibilite— she 
has infinite sensibility too ! — interesting, 
and at the height, what you English call 
the tip-top of the fashion here." 

OKMOJSD. 2] 9 

" So it appears, indeed," said Ormond, 
** by the crowd of admirers I see round 
Madame de Connal." 

" Admirers ! yes, adorers you may 
say — Encore ! If you added lovers you 
would not be much wrong- ; dying- for 
love — eperdument epris ! — See, there, 5 he 
who is bowing now — 'Monsieur le Mar- 
quis de Beaulieu — homme de com- — plein 
d'esprit — homme marquant — very re- 
markable man. But — Ah voila qui entre 
— of the court. Did you ever see finer 
entree made by man into a room, so full 
of grace. Ah ! Le Comte de Belle Chasse 
— How many women already he has lost! 
— It is a real triumph to Madame de Con- 
nal to have him in her chains. — What a 
smile ! — C'est lui qui est aimable pour 
nous autres — d'une soumission pour les 
femmes — d'une fierte pour les homines. 
— As the lamb gentle for the pretty 
woman ; as the lion terrible for the man. 
It is that Comte de Belle Chasse, who is 
absolutely irresistible." 


*220 ORMOND. 

" Absolutely irresistible," Ormond re- 
peated, smiling-, " not absolutely, I 

" Oh, that is understood — you do not 
doubt la sagesse de Madame ? — Besides 
heureusement there is an infinite safety 
for her in the number, as you see, of her 
adorers. Wait till I name them to vou, I 
shall give you a catalogue raisonnee." 

With rapid enunciation Mademoiselle 
went through the names and rank of the 
circle of adorers, noting with compla- 
cency the number of ladies, to whom each 
man of gallantry was supposed to have 
paid his addresses — next to being of the 
blood royal this appearing to be the high- 
est distinction. 

" And a propos, Monsieur d'Ormond, 
yon, yourself, when do you count to go 
to Versailles ? — Ah ! when you shall see 
the king and the king's supper, and Ma- 
dame la Dauphine! Ah!" 

Mademoiselle was recalled from the 
extacy in which she had thrown up her 


eyes to Heaven, by some gentleman 
speaking to her as he passed the open 

cabinet door arm in arm with a lady 

Mademoiselle answered, with a profound 
inclination of the head, whispering to 
Ormond after they had passed— M. le due 

de C with Madame de la Tour. 

" Why he is constant always to that 
woman, Heaven knows better than I. — 
Stand, if you are so good, Monsieur, a 
little more this way, and give your atten- 
tion, they don't want yon yet at play." 

Then designating every person at the 
different card tables, she told that such a 
lady is such a gentleman's wife, and 

there is M. le Baron de L her lover 

the gentleman who looks over her cards 
— and that other lady with the joli pom- 
pon, she is intimate with M. de la Tour, 
the husband of the lady who passed with 
M. le Due. Mademoiselle explained all 
these arrangements with the most perfect 
sang froid, as things of course, that every 
body knew and spoke of, except just be- 


fore the husbands ; — but there was no 
mystery, no concealment — " What use? 
—To what good?" 

Ormond asked whether there were any 
ladies in the room, who were supposed to 
be faithful to their husbands. 

" Eh ! — Ma niece par exemple, Ma- 
dame de Connal — I may cite as a woman 
of la plus belle reputation, sans tache — 
what you call unblemish." 

" Assuredly," said Ormond, " you 
could not, I hope, think me so indiscreet 
— I believe I said ladies in the plural 

" Ah ! oui, assuredly, and I can name 
you twenty. To begin, there, do you 
see that woman standing up, who has the 
air as if she think of nothing at all, and 
nobody thinking of her, with only her 
husband near her, cet grand homme bleme. 
— There is Madame de la Rousse— d\me 
reputation intacte! — frightfully dressed as 
she is always ! — But hold, you see that 
pretty little Comtesse de la Brie, all in 


white ? — Charmante ! I give her to you 
as a reputation against which slander 
cannot breathe — Nouvelle mariee — bride 
— in what you call de honey moon ; — but 
we don't know that in French — no mat- 
ter! — again, since you are curious in 
these things, there is another reputation 
without spot, Madame de St. Ange, I 
warrant her to you — bieri froide celle-h\, 
cold as any English, married a full year 
— and still her choice to make ; — allons, 
there is three I give you already, with- 
out counting my niece ; and wait, I will 
find you yet another," said Mademoiselle, 
looking carefully through the crowd. 

She was relieved from her difficulty by 
the entrance of the little abbe, who came 
to summon Monsieur to Madame de Con- 
nal, who did him the honour to invite 
him to the table. Ormond played, and 
fortune smiled upon him as she usually 
does upon a new votary ; and beauty 
smiled upon him perhaps on the same 
principle. Connal never came near 



him till supper was announced j then only 
to desire him to give his arm to a charm- 
ing little Countess— La Nouvelle Mariee 
— Madame de Connal belonging, by right 
of rank, to Monsieur le Comte de Belle 
Chasse. The supper was one of the de- 
lightful petit soupers for which Paris was 
famous at that day, and which she will 
never see again. 

The moralist, who considers the essen- 
tial interests of morality more than the 
immediate pleasures of society, will think 
this rather a matter of rejoicing than re- 
gret. How far such society and correct 
female conduct be compatible, is a ques- 
tion which it might take too long a time 
to decide. 

Therefore, be it sufficient here to say, 
that Ormond, without staying to examine 
it, was charmed with the present effect ; 
with the gaiety, the wit, the politeness, 
th# ease, and altogether with that in- 
describable thing, that untranslateable 
esprit de soci6te. He could not after- 

ORMOND. 225 

wards remember any thing very striking- 
or very solid that had been said, but all 
was agreeable at the moment, and there 
was great variety. Ormond's self love 
was, he knew not how, flattered. With- 
out effort, it seemed to be the object of 
every body to make Paris agreeable to 
him ; and they convinced him, that he 
would find it the most charming place in 
the world — without any disparagement 
to his own country, to which all solid 
honours and advantages were left undis- 
puted. The ladies whom he had thought 
so little captivating at first view at the 
theatre, were all charming on further 
acquaintance, so full of vivacity, and 
something so flattering in their manner, 
that it put a stranger at once at his ease. 
Towards the end of the supper he found 
himself talking to two very pretty women 
at once, with good effect, and thinking 
at the same time of Dora and the Comte 
de Belle Chasse. Moreover, he thought 
he saw that Dora was doing the same 
l 3 

226 ORMOND. 

between the irresistible Duke and the 
Comte plein d'esprit, from whom, while 
she was listening and talking without 
intermission, her eyes occasionally stray- 
ed, and once or twice met those of Or- 

" Is it indiscreet to ask you, whether 
you passed your evening agreeably ?" 
said M. de Connal, when the company had 

" Delightfully," said Ormond, " the 
most agreeable evening I ever passed in 
my life!" 

Then fearing that he had spoken with 
too much enthusiasm, and that the hus- 
band might observe that his eyes, as he 
spoke, involuntarily turned towards Ma- 
dame de Connal, he moderated (he might 
have saved himself the trouble), he mo- 
derated his expression by adding, " that 
as far as he could yet judge, he thought 
French society very agreeable." 

" You have seen nothing yet, you are 
right not to judge hastily," said Connal, 

ORMOND. 227 

But so far, I am glad you are tolerably 
well satisfied." 

" Ah ! oui, Monsieur Ormond," cried 
Mademoiselle, joining them, " we shall 
fix you at Paris, I expect." 

" You hope, I suppose you mean, my 
dear aunt," said Dora, with such flatter- 
ing- hope in her voice, and in the ex- 
pression of her countenance, that Ormond 
decided that he — 

" Certainly, intended to spend the 
winter at Paris." 

Connal, satisfied with this certainty, 
would have let Ormond go. — But Made- 
moiselle had many compliments to make 
him and herself upon his pronunciation, 
and his fluency in speaking the Frencn 
language — really like a Frenchman him- 
self. — The Marquis de Beaulieu had 
said so to her — she was sure M, d'Or- 
mond could not fail to succeed in Paris, 
with that perfection added to all his other 
advantages. It was the greatest of all 
advantage in the world — the greatest ad- 

228 ORMOND. 

vantage in the universe — she was going 
on to say, but Connal finished the flattery 

" You would pity us, Ormond," cried 
he, interrupting Mademoiselle, " if you 
could see and hear the Vandals, they 
send to us from England with letters 

of introduction barbarians who can 

neither sit, stand, nor speak— nor even 
articulate the language. How many of 
these butors ! rich, of good family, I 
have been sometimes called upon to in- 
troduce into society, and to present at 
court ! — Upon my honour it has happen- 
ed to me, to wish they might hang them- 
selves out of my way, or be found dead 
in their beds the dav I was to take them 
to Versailles." 

" It is really too great a tax upon the 
good breeding of the lady of the house," 
said Madame de Connal, "deplorable! 
when she has nothing better to say of an 
English guest, than that ' Ce monsieur la 
a un grand talent pour le silence.'" 


Ormond, conscious that he had talked 
away at a great rate, was pleased by this 
indirect compliment. 

" But such personnages muets never 
really see French society. Every body 
is quit of them for a supper — not a petit 
souper — no, no, an invitation to a great 
assembly, where they see nothing. Mi- 
lord Anglois is lost in the crowd, or 
stuck across a door-way by his own 
sword. — Now, what could any letter 
of recommendation clo for such a fellow 
as that?" 

" The letters of recommendation which 
are of most advantage," said Madame 
de Connal — " are those which are written 
in the countenance." 

Ormond had presence of mind enough 
not to bow, though the compliment 
was directed distinctly to him — a look 
of thanks he knew was sufficient. As 
he retired, Mademoiselle, pursuing to the 
door, begged that he would come as 
early as he could the next morning, that 

230 ORMOND. 

she might introduce him to Her apart- 
ments, and explain to him all the su- 
perior conveniences of a French house. 
M. de Connal representing-, however, 
that the next day Mr. Ormond was to> 
go to Versailles, Mademoiselle acknow- 
ledged that was an affair to which all 
others must yield. 

Well flattered by all the trio, and 
still more perhaps by his own vanity, our 
young hero was at last suffered to de- 

The first appearance at Versailles was- 
a matter of great consequence. — Court 
dress was then an affair of as much im- 
portance at Paris, as it seems to be now 
in London, if we may judge by the co- 
lumns of birth day dresses, and the ho- 
nourable notice of gentlemen's coats and 
waistcoats. It was then at Paris, how* 
ever, as it is now, and ever will be all 
over the world, essential to the appear- 
ance of a gentleman, that whatever time, 
pains, or expense it might have cost, 

ORMONB. 231 

he should, from the moment he is dressed, 
be or at least seem above his dress. In 
this as in most cases, the shortest and 
safest way to seem is to be. Onr yonno» 
hero being- free from personal conceit, 
or overweening anxiety about his ap- 
pearance, looked at ease. He called at 
the Hotel de Connal the day he was to 
go to Versailles, and Mademoiselle was 
in extacy at the sight of his dress, 
exclaiming, " stiperbe ! — magnifique !" 

Connal seemed more struck with his 
air than his dress, and Dora, perhaps, 
was most pleased with his figure — she 
was silent — but it was a silence that 
spoke — her husband heeded not what it 
said, but, pursuing his own course, ob- 
served, that to borrow the expression 
of Crepin, the valet de chambre, no 
contemptible judge in these cases, Mon- 
sieur Ormond looked not only as if he was 
ne coiffe, but as if he had been born with 
a sword by his side. " Really, my dear 
friend," continued Connal, " you look 

282 ORMOND. 

as if you had come at once full dressed 
into the world, which in our days is bet- 
ter than coming ready armed out of the 
head of Jupiter." 

Mademoiselle O'Faley now seizing 
upon Ormond, whom she called her pu- 
pil, carried him off, to shew him her apart- 
ments, and to shew him the whole house j 
which she did with many useful notes — 
pointing- out the convenience, and entire 
liberty, that result from the complete se- 
paration of the apartments of the hus- 
band and wife in French houses. 

" You see, Monsieur et Madame with 
their own staircases — their own passages, 
their own doors in and out, and all se- 
parate for the people of Monsieur, and 
the women of Madame, and here through 
this little door you go into the apart- 
ments of Madame." 

Ormond's English foot stopped respect- 

" Eh, entrez toujours," said Made- 
moiselle, as the husband had said before 
at the door of the boudoir. 


" But Madame de Connal is dressing, 
perhaps," said Ormond. 

" Et puis ? — and what then ? you must 
get rid as fast as you can of your English 
prejuges — and she is not here neither," 
said Mademoiselle opening the door. 

Madame de Connal was in an inner 
apartment; and Ormond, the instant after 
he entered this room with Mademoiselle, 
heard a quick step, which he knew was 
Dora's, running to bolt the door of the 
inner room — he was glad that she had 
not quite got rid of her English pre- 

She pointed out to him all the accom- 
modations of a French apartment — Made- 
moiselle had not at this moment the slight- 
est malice, or bad intention in any thing 
she was saying — she simply spoke in all 
the innocence of a Frenchwoman — if 
that term be intelligible. — If she had 
any secret motive, it was merely the va- 
nity of shewing that she was quite Pa- 
risienne — and there again she was mis- 
taken, for having lived half her life out 

234 ORMONm 

of Paris, she had forgotten, if she ever 
had it, the tone of good society — and 
upon her return had overdone the mat- 
ter, exaggerated the French manners, to 
prove to her niece, that she knew les 
usages — les convenances, les nuances 
— enfin la mode de Paris ! — a more dan- 
gerous guide in Paris for a young mar- 
ried woman in every respect could 
scarcely be found. 

M. de ConnaI r s valet now came to let 
Mr. Ormond know, that Monsieur wait- 
ed his orders. — But for this interruption^ 
he was in a fair way to hear all the pri- 
vate history of the family, — all the se- 
crets that Mademoiselle knew. 

Of the amazing communicativeness of 
Frenchwomen on all subjects our young 
hero had as yet no conception.. 

OEM !XD. 23-3 


IT was (luring- the latter years of the 
life of Lewis the fifteenth, and during' 
the reign of Madame du Barre, that 
Ormond was at Paris. The court of 
Versailles was at this time in all its 
splendour, if not in all its glory. 
At le souper du roi, Ormond beheld, 
in all the magnificence of dress and 
jewels, the nobility, wealth, fashion, and 
beauty of France. Well might the bril- 
liancy dazzle the eyes of a youth fresh 
from Ireland, when it amazed even old 
embassadors, accustomed to the ordinary 
grandeur of courts. When he recovered 
from his first astonishment, when his 
eyes were a little better used to the 

236 ORMONtJ. 

light, and he looked round and consi- 
dered all these magnificently decorated 
personages, assembled for the purpose of 
standing at a certain distance to see 
one man eat his supper, it did appear to 
him an extraordinary spectacle : and the 
very great solemnity and devotion of 
the assistants, so unsuited to the French 
countenance, inclined him to smile. It 
was well for him, however, that he kept 
his Irish risible muscles in order, and 
that no courtier could guess his thoughts 
— a smile would have lost him his repu- 
tation. Nothing in the world appeared 
to Frenchmen formerly of more im- 
portance than their court etiquette j 
though there were some who began 
about this time to suspect, that the court 
order of things might riot be co-existeut 
with the order of nature — though there 
were some philosophers and statesmen 
began to be aware, that the daily routine 
of the courtier's etiquette was not as ne- 
cessary as the motions of the sun, moon, 

ORMOND. 237 

and planets. Nor could it have been 
possible to convince half at least of the 
crowd, who assisted at the king's supper 
this night, that all the French national 
eagerness about the health, the looks, 
the words, of le Roi, all the attachment, 
le devouement, professed habitually— per- 
haps felt habitually—for the reigning 
monarch, whoever or whatever he might 
be, by whatever name; notre bon roi, 
or simply, notre roi de France; should 
in a few years pass away, and be no more 

Ormond had no concern with the 
affairs of the nation, nor with the future 
fate of any thing he beheld— he was only 
a spectator, a foreigner— and his business 
was, according to Mademoiselle's maxim, 
to enjoy to-day, and to reflect to-morrow. 
His enjoyment of this day was complete 
—he not only admired, but was admired. 
In the vast grand crowd he was distin- 
guished — some nobleman of note asked 
who he was— another observed fair 

238 ORMOND. 

noble — another exclaimed ll Le bel An- 
glois /" and his fortune was made at 
Paris, especially as a friend of Madame 
du Barre's asked where he bought his 
embroidery — 

He went afterwards, at least in Con- 
nal's society, by the name of " Le bel 
Anglois." Half in a tone of raillery, yet 
with a look that shewed she felt it to be 
just, Madame de Connal first adopted 
the appellation, and then changed the 
term to " mon bel Irlandois." Invita- 
tions upon invitations poured upon Or- 
mond. It was who should have him at 
their parties — he was every where — at- 
tending Madame de Connal — and she, 
how proud to be attended by Ormond ! 
He dreaded lest his principles should not 
withstand the strong temptation. He 
could not leave her, but he determined 
to see her only in crowds. Accordingly, 
he avoided every select party, — 1'amie 
intime could never for the first three 
weeks get him to one petit comite, though 

ORMOND. 230 

Madame de Connal assured him that 
her friend's petit soupers " were charm- 
ing, worth all the crowded assemblies in 
Paris." — Still he pursued his plan, and 
sought for safety in a course of dissipa- 

" I give you joy," said Connal to him 
one day, " you are fairly launched ! you 
are no distressed vessel to be taken in 
tow, nor a petty bark, to sail in any man's 
wake. You have a gale, and are likely 
to have a triumph of your own." 

Connal was, upon all occasions, care- 
ful to impress upon Ormond's mind, that 
he left him wholly to himself, for he was 
aware that in former days he had 
offended his independent spirit by airs 
of protection. He managed better now 
— he never even invited him to play, 
though it was his main object to draw 
him to his faro table. He made use of 
some of his friends or confederates, who 
played for him ; Connal occasionally 
coming to the table as an unconcerned 
spectator. Ormond played with so 

240 ORMOND. 

much freedom, and seemed to be so sren- 
teelly indifferent whether he lost or won, 
that he was considered as an easy dupe. 
Time only was necessary. C on nal thought, 
to lead him on gradually, and without 
alarm, to let him warm to the passion 
for play. Mean while Madame de Con- 
nal felt as fully persuaded, that Ormond's 
passion for her would increase. It was 
her object to fix him at Paris — but she 
should be content, perfectly happy with 
his friendship, his society, his sentiments 
— Her own sentiment for him, as she 
confessed to Madame de Clairville, wa» 
absolutely invincible — but it should ne- 
ver lead her beyond the bounds of virtue. 
It was involuntary — it should never be 
a crime. 

Madame de Clairville, who understood 
her business, and spoke with all the 
fashionable cant of sensibility, asked how 
it was possible, that an involuntary senti- 
ment could ever be a crime ? 

As certainly as the novice among a 
band of sharpers is taught by the tech- 


ORMOND. 241 

nical language of the gang to conquer his 
horror of crime — so certainly does the 
cant of sentiment operate upon the fe- 
male novice, and vanquish her fear of 
shame, and moral horror of vice. 

The allusion is coarse, — so much the 
better, — strength, not elegance, is neces- 
sary on some occasions to make an im- 

The truth will strike the good sense 
and good feelings of our countrywomen, 
and unadorned, they will prefer it to 
German or French sophistry. By such 
sophistry, however, was Dora led on in- 

But Ormond did not yet advance in 
learning the language of sentiment — he 
was amusing himself in the world, — -and 
Dora imagined, that the dissipation in 
which he lived prevented him from hav- 
ing time to think of his passion — she 
began to hate the dissipation. 

Connal one day, when Dora was pre- 
sent, observed that Ormond seemed to 


242 ORMQN'D. 

be quite in his natural element in this 
sea of pleasure. 

" Who would have thought it ?" said 
Dora, " I thought Mr, Ormond's taste 
was more for domestic happiness and 

" Retirement at Paris !" said Ormond. 
(i Domestic happiness at Parish" said 

Madame de Connal sighed — -No, it 
was Dora that sighed. 

" Where do you go to-night ?" said 
her husband. 

" No where — I shall stay at home. — 
And you ?" — said she, looking up at 
Harry Ormond. 

" To Madame de la Tour's." 
" That's the affair of half an hour — 
only to appear — " 

" Afterwards to the opera," said Or- 

'* And after the opera — can't you sup 
here?" said Madame de Connal. 
" With the utmost pleasure — but that 

ORMONI>. 243 

I am engaged to Madame de la Brie's 

" That's true," cried Madame de Con- 
nal, starting up, " I had forgot it — so 
am I this fortnight — I may as well go to 
the opera, too, and I can carry you to 
Madame de la Tours — I owe her a five 
minutes sitting — Though she is un peu 
precieuse — And what can you find in 
that little cold Madame de la Brie — do 
you like ice ?" 

" He like to break de ice, I suppose," 
said Mademoiselle — " Ma foi, you must 
then take a hatchet there." 

" No occasion ; I had rather slide 
upon the ice than break it — My business 
at Paris is merely, you know, to amuse 
myself," said he, looking at Connal, 
" Glissez mortels n'appuyez pas.'' 

" But if de ice should melt of itself," 

said Mademoiselle, " what would you 

do den? What would become of him, 

den, do you think, my dear niece ?" 

It was a case which he did not like to 

m 2 

244 ORMOND. 

consider — Dora blushed — No creature 
was so blind as Mademoiselle, with all 
her boasted quickness and penetration. 

From this time forward no more was 
heard of Madame de Connal's taste for 
domestic life and retirement — she seem- 
ed quite convinced, either by her hus- 
band, or by Mr. Ormond, or both, that 
no such thing was practicable at Paris. 
She had always liked le grand monde — 
she liked it better now than ever, when 
she found Ormond in every crowded 
assembly, every place of public amuse- 
ment — a continual round of breakfasts, 
dinners, balls — court balls — bal masque 
— bal de l'opera — plays — grand enter- 
tainments, petits soupers — f&tes at Ver- 
sailles — pleasure in every possible form 
and variety of luxury and extravagance 
succeeded day after day, and night after 
night — and Ormond, le bel Irlandois, 
once in fashion, was every where, and 
every where admired, flattered by the 
women, who wished to draw him in to 

ORMOND. 245 

be their partners at play, still more flat- 
tered by those who wished to engaoe 
him as a lover — most of all flattered by 
Dora. — He felt his danger. — Improved in 
coquetry by Parisian practice and 
power, Dora tried her utmost skill — she 
played off with great dexterity her 
various admirers to excite his jealousy — 
the Marquis de Beaulieu, the witty 
marquis, and the Count de Belle-Chasse, 
the irresistible count, were dangerous 
rivals. She succeeded in exciting" Or- 
mond's jealousy, but in his noble mind 
there were strong opposing principles to 
withstand his selfish gratification. — Jt{ 
was surprising with what politeness to 
each other, with how little love, all the 
suitors carried on this game of gallantry, 
and competition of vanity. 

Till Ormond appeared, it had been the 
general opinion, that before the end of the 
winter or the spring, the count de Belle 
Chasse would be triumphant. Why 
Ormond did not enter the lists, when 

246 ORMOND. 

there appeared to all the judges such a 
chance of his winning 1 the prize, seem- 
ed incomprehensible to the spectators, 
and still more to the rival candidates. 
Some settled it with the exclamation 
" Inoui !" Others pronounced that it was 
English bizarrerie. Every thing seemed 
to smooth the slippery path of tempta- 
tion — the indifference of her husband — 
the imprudence of her aunt, and of Ma- 
dame de Clairville — the general customs 
of French society — the peculiar profli- 
gacy of the society into which he hap- 
pened to be thrown — the opinion which 
he saw prevailed, that if he withdrew 
from the competition a rival would im- 
mediately profit by his forbearance, con- 
spired to weaken his resolution. 

Many accidental circumstances con- 
curred to increase the danger. — At these 
balls, to which he went originally to avoid 
Dora in smaller parties, Madame de 
Connal, though she constantly appeared* 
seldom dancecL — She did not dance well 

OlttlOND. 247 

enough to bear comparison with French 
dancers ; Ormond was in the same situa- 
tion. The dancing- which was very well, 
in England would not do in Paris — no 
late lessons could, by any art, bring them 
to an equality with French nature. 

"Ah, il ne danse pas !•— He dances 
like an Englishman." At the first ball 
this comforted the suitors, and most the 
Count de Belle-Chasse ; but this very 
circumstance drew Oraiond and Dora 
closer together-she pretended head aches, 
and languor, and lassitude, and, in short, 
sat still. 

But it was not to be expected, that the 
Comte de Belle-Chasse could give up 
dancing:— the Comte de Belle-Chasse 
danced like le dieu de la danse, another 
Vestris; he danced every night, and 
Ormond sat and talked to Dora, for it 
was his duty to attend Madame, when 
the little abb& was out of the way. 

The spring was now appearing, and 
the spring is delightful in Paris, and the 

248 ORMOND. 

promenades in the Champs Elysees, and 
in the Bois de Boulogne, and the prome- 
nade in Long-Champ commenced. — Rid- 
ing was just coming into high fashion with 
the French ladies; and, instead of riding 
in man's clothes, and like a man, it was 
now the ambition de monter k cheval a 
l'Angloise — to ride on a sidesaddle and 
in an English riding habit, was now the 
ambition. Now Dora, though she could 
not dance as weli— couid vide better than 
any Frenchwoman, and she was ambi- 
tious to shew herself and her horseman- 
ship in the Bois de Boulogne : — but she 
had no horse that she liked. Le Comte 
de Belle-Chasse offered to get one broke 
for her at the king's riding-house — this 
she refused : — but fortunately Ormond, 
as was the custom with the English at 
that time, had, after his arrival, some 
Eno-lish horses brought over to him at 
Paris. Among these was the horse he 
had once broke for Dora. 

For this an English sidesaddle was 

ORMOND. 249 

procured — she was properly equipped 
and mounted. 

And the two friends, le bel Irlandois, 
as they persisted in calling Ormond ; and 
la belle Irlandoise, and their horses, and 
their horsemanship, were the admiration 
of the promenade. 

The Cotnte de Belle-Chasse sent to 
London for an English horse at any 
price. — He was out of humour —and Or- 
mond in the finest humour imaginable. — 
Dora was grateful ; her horse was a beau- 
tiful, gentle-spirited creature: — it was 
called Harry — it was frequently patted 
and care«sed, and told how much it was 
valued and loved. 

Ormond was now in great danger, be- 
cause he felt himself secure that he was 
only a friend — V amide la maison. 


250 ORMOND, 


THERE was a picture of Dagote's, 
which was at this moment an object of 
fashionable curiosity in Paris. It was 
a representation of one of Che many cha- 
ritable actions of the unfortunate Marie 
Antoinette, " then Dauphiness — at that 
time full of life, and splendour, and joy, 
adorning and cheering the elevated sphere 
she just began to move in," — and yet dif- 
fusing life, and hope, and joy to that 
lower sphere, to which the radiance of 
the great and happy seldom reaches. 
The Dauphiness was at that time the 
pride of France, and the darling of Paris j 
— not only worshipped by the court, but 
loved by the people. While she was 

ORMOND. 2)1 

Dauphiness, and during- the commence- 
ment of her reign, every thing-, even 
disastrous accidents, and the rigour of 
the season, served to give her fresh op- 
portunity of winning the affection, and 
exciting- the enthusiasm of the people. 
When during the festivities on her mar- 
riage hundreds were crushed to death 
by the fall of a temporary building, the 
sensibility of the Dauphiness, the eager- 
ness with which she sent all her money 
to the lieutenant de police for the fami- 
lies of those who had perished, conciliated 
the people, and turned even the evil pre- 
sage to good. Again, during a severe 
frost, her munificence to the suffering 
poor excited such gratitude, that the 
people erected to her honour a vast 
pyramid of snow — Frail memorial ! — 
" These marks of respect were almost 
as transitory as the snowy pyramid." 

Ormond went with Mademoiselle O'Fa- 
ley one morning to see the picture of 
the Dauphiness, and he had now an op- 

252 ORMONB. 

portunity of seeing a display of French 
sensibility, that eagerness to feel and to 
excite a sensation; that desire to produce 
an effect, to have a scene ; that half real 
half theatric enthusiasm, by which the 
French character is peculiarly distin- 
guished from the English. He was per- 
fectly astonished by the quantity of ex- 
clamations he heard at the sight of this 
picture ; the lifting up of hands and eyes, 
the transports, the ecstacies, the tears, 
the actual tears that he saw streaming 
in despite of rouge — It was real ! and 
it was not real feeling! — Of one thing 
he was clear, that this superfluity of feel- 
ing or exaggeration of expression com- 
pletely silenced him, and made him cold 
indeed — like one unskilled or dumb he 
seemed to stand. 

" But are you of marble," cried Ma- 
demoiselle, " where is your sensibility 

u I hope it is safe at the bottom of my 
heart," said Ormond, " but when it is 

ORMOND. 253 

called for I can not always find it, 

especially on these public occasions." 

" Ah ! but what good all the sensibilite 
in the world do at the bottom of your 
heart, where nobody see it?— It is on these 
public occasions too you must always 
contrive and find it quick at Paris, or 
after all you will seem but an English- 

" I must be content to seem and to be 
what I am," said Ormond, in a tone of 
playful, but determined resignation. 

" Bon !" said a voice near him. — Ma- 
demoiselle went off in impatience to 
find some better auditor — she did not 
hear the " Bon.' 1 

Ormond turned, and saw near him a 
gentleman, whom he had often met at some 
of the first houses at Paris. The Abbe 
Morellet, then respected as the most 
reasonable of all the wits of France, and 
who has since, through all the trying 
scenes of the revolution, through the va- 
rieties of unprincipled change, preserved 

2-54 ORMOND. 

unaltered the integrity and frankness of 
his character — retaining even to his 
eighty-seventh year all his character- 
istic warmth of heart and clearness of 
understanding, le doyen de la UtUrature 
Franfoise — the love, respect, and ad- 
miration of every honest heart in France. 
— May he live to receive among all the 
other tributes, which his countrymen pay 
publicly and privately to his merit, 
this record of the impression his kind- 
ness left on grateful English hearts. 

Our young hero had often desired to 
be acquainted with the abbe, — but the 
abb6 had really hitherto passed him over 
as a mere young man of fashion, — a mere 
Milord Anglois, one of the ephemeral 
race, who appear in Parisian society, 
vanish, and leave no trace behind. — But 
now he did him the honour to enter into 
conversation with him. — The abbe pe- 
culiarly disliked all affectation of senti- 
ment and exaggeration ; — they were re- 
volting to his good sense, good taste, 

ORMOND. 255 

and feeling. Ormond won directly his 
good opinion and good will, by having 
insisted upon it to Mademoiselle, that 
he would not for the sake of fashion or 
effect pretend to feel more than he 
really did. 

«' Bah!" said the abbe, « hear all 

those women now and all those men — 

they do not know what they are saying — 

they make me sick. — And, besides, I am 

afraid these flattering: courtiers will do 

no good to our young Dauphiness, on 

whom so much of the future happiness 

or misery of France will depend. — Her 

heart is excellent ; and they tell me she 

announces a strong character; — but what 

head of a young beauty and a young 

queen will be able to withstand perpetual 

flattery ? They will lead her wrong, 

and then would be the first to desert 

her — Trust me, I know Paris. — All this 

might change as quickly as the turn of 

a weathercock ; — but 1 will not trouble 

you with forebodings, perhaps never to 

256 ORMOND. 

be realized. You see Paris, Monsieur, 
at a fortunate time," continued he, — 
" society is now more agreeable, has 
more freedom, more life and variety, 
than at any other period that I can re- 

Ormond replied by a just compliment 
to the men of letters, who at this period 
added so much to the brilliancy and 
pleasure of Parisian society. 

" But you have seen nothing- of our 
men of literature, have you ?" said the 

" Much less than I wish. — I meet 
them frequently in society, but as, unfor- 
tunately, I have no pretensions to then- 
notice, I can only catch a little of their 
conversation, when I am fortunate enough 
to be near them." 

" Yes," said the abbe, with his pecu- 
liar look and tone of good-natured irony, 
" between the pretty things you are say-- 

ing and hearing from Fear nothing, 

T am not going to name any one, but — 


ORMOND. 257 

every pretty woman in company. — I 
grant you it must be difficult to hear 
reason in such a situation —as difficult 
almost as in the midst of the din of all 
the passions at the faro-table. 1 observe, 
however, that you play with astonishing 
coolness — there is something' still — want- 
ing. — Excuse me — but you interest me. 
Monsieur — the determination not to play 
at all." 

" Beyond a certain sum, I have re- 
wind never to play." said Qraiond. 

" Ah ! but the appetite grows — l'appetit 
vient en mangeant — the danger is ac- 
quiring the taste — excuse me if I speak 
too freely." 

" Not at all — you cannot oblige me 
more. — But there is no danger of my 
acquiring a taste for play, because I am 
determined to lose." 

" Bon !" said the abbe, " that is 
the most singular determination I ever 
heard j explain that to me then, Mon- 

-;58 ORMOND. 

" I have determined to lose a certain 
sum — suppose five hundred guineas — 1 
have won and lost backwards and for- 
wards, and have been longer about it 
than you would conceive to be probable, 
but it is not lost yet. — The moment it 
is, I shall stop short. — By this means I 
have acquired all the advantages of yield- 
ing to the fashionable madness, without 
risking my future happiness." 

The abb6 was pleased with the idea, 
and with the frankness and firmness of 
our young hero. 

" Really, Monsieur," said he, " you 
must have a strong head; you, le bel 
ltlandois, to have prevented it from 
turning with all the flattery you have 
received at Paris. There is nothing 
which gets into the head— worse still— 
into the heart so soon, so dangerously, 
as the flattery of pretty women. — And 
yet, I declare you seem wonderfully so- 
ber, considering." 

" Ne jurez pas," said Ormond— " but 

ORMOND. 250 

at least in one respect I have not quite lost 
my senses ; 1 know the value, and feel 
the want of a safe, good guide at Paris ; 
if I dared to ask such a favour, I should, 
since he has expressed some interest for 
me, beg to be permitted to cultivate the 
acquaintance of M. 1'Abl e Morellet." 

" Ah 9a — now my head will turn, for 
no head can stand the dose of flattery, that 
happens to suit the taste. I am particu- 
larly flattered by the idea of being' a 
safe, good friend ; and frankly, if I can 
be of any service to you, I will. Is there 
any thing I can do for you ?" 

Ormond thanked him, and told him 
that it was his great ambition to become 
acquainted with the celebrated men of 
literature in Paris, — he said he should 
feel extremely obliged, if M. Morellet 
would take occasion to introduce him to 
any of them they might meet in society. 

" We must do better for you," said the 
abbe, '< we must shew you our men of 
letters ;" he concluded by begging Or- 

260 ORMOND. 

niond to name a, day, when he could do 
him the -honour to breakfast with him. 
" I will promise you Marmontel at least, 
for he is just going to be married to my 
niece, and of him we shall be secure; and 
as to the rest I will promise nothing, but 
do as much as I can." 

" The men of letters, about this pe- 
riod, at Paris," as the abbe explained 
to Ormond, " began to feel their own 
power and consequence, and had assumed 
a tone of independance, yet tempered 
with due respect for rank. Many of 
them lived or were connected with men 
of rank, by places about the court, by 
secretaryships and pensions, obtained 
through court influence. Some were 
attached by early friendship to certain 
great families ; had apartments to them- 
selves in their hotels, where they received 
what friends they pleased ; and, in short, 
lived as if they were at home. Their 
company was much sought for by the 
great; and they enjoyed good houses, 

ORMOND. 261 

good tables, carriages, all the conve- 
niences of life, and all the luxuries of the 
rich, without the trouble of an establish- 
ment. Their mornings were their own, 
employed in study usually, and they 
came down from their studies, and gave 
themselves to society for the rest of the 
day. While this state of things lasted — 
was the most agreeable period, perhaps, 
of French literary society. 

The Abbe Morellet's breakfast was 
very agreeable, and Orniond saw at his 
house, what he had promised him, many 
of the literary men at Paris. Voltaire 
was not then in France; and Rousseau, 
who was always quarrelling with some- 
body, and generally with every body, 
could not be prevailed upon to come to 
this breakfast. Ormond was assured, 
that he lost nothing by not seeing him, 
or by not hearing his conversation, for it 
was by no means equal to his writings; 
his temper was so susceptible and way- 
ward, that he was aot fit for society — 

202 ORMOND. 

neither capable of enjoying nor of adding 
to its pleasures. — Ormond heard perhaps 
more of Rousseau and Voltaire, and 
learnt more of their characters, by the 
anecdotes that were related, and the 
bon mots that were repeated, than he 
could have done if they had been pre- 
sent. There was great variety of dif- 
ferent characters and talents at this 
breakfast; and the al>b6 amused himself 
by making his young friend guess who 
the people were before he told theirnames. 
It was happy for Ormond, that he was 
acquainted with some of their writings, 
(this he owed to Lady Annaly's well 
chosen present of French books). He was 
fortunate in his first guess — Marivaux's 
conversation was so like the style of his 
writings, so full of hair breadth distinc- 
tions, subtle exceptions, and metaphysical 
refinement and digressions, that Ormond 
soon guessed him, and was applauded for 
his quickness.— Marmontel he discovered 
by his being the only man in the room 

ORMOND. 263 

who had not mentioned to him any of 
" Les Contes Moraux." — But there was 
one person who set all his skill at de- 
fiance : he pronounced that he was no 
author — that he was l'ami de la maison — 
he was so indeed wherever he went — but 
he was both a man of literature, and a 
man of deep science — no less a person 
than the great d'Alembert. Ormond 
thought d'Alembert and Marmontel were 
the two most agreeable men in com- 
pany — d'Alembert was simple, open- 
hearted, unpresuming, and cheerful in 
society. Far from being subject to that 
absence of mind, with which profound 
mathematicians are sometimes reproach- 
ed, d'Alembert was present to every 
thing that was going forward — every 
trifle he enjoyed with the zest of youth, 
and the playfulness of childhood. — Or- 
mond confessed, that he should never 
have guessed that he was a great mathe- 
matician and profound calculator, 

Marmontel was distinguished for com- 

264 ORMOND. 

bining in his conversation, as in his cha- 
racter, two qualities for which there are 
no precise English words, naivete and 
finesse. Whoever is acquainted with 
Marmontel's writings must have a per- 
fect knowledge of what is meant by 

It was fortunate for our young hero, 
that Marmontel was, at this time, no 
longer the dissipated man he had been 
during too great a period of his life. — He 
had now returned to his early tastes for 
simple pleasures and domestic virtues : — 
had formed that attachment, which after- 
wards made the happiness of his life. — 
He was just going to be married to the 
amiable Mademoiselle Montigny, a niece 
of the Abb6 Morellet; — she, and her 
excellent mother, lived with him; and 
Ormond was most agreeably surprised 
and touched at the unexpected sight of an 
amiable, united, happy family, when he 
had only expected to see a meeting of 

OB.MOND* 265 

The sight of this domestic happiness 
reminded him of the Annalys— brought 
the image of Florence to his mind. — If 
she had been but sincere, how he should 
have preferred her to all he had seen. 

It came upon him just at the right mo- 
ment. — It contrasted with all the dissipa- 
tion he had seen, and it struck him the 
more strongly, because it could not possi- 
bly have been prepared as a moral lesson 
to make an impression. — He saw the 
real, natural course of things — he heard 
in a few hours the result of the ex- 
perience of a man of great vivacity, 
great talents, who had led a life of 
pleasure, and who had had opportuni- 
ties of seeing and feeling all that it 
could possibly afford, at the period of 
the greatest luxury and dissipation ever 
known in France. No evidence could 
be stronger than Marmontel's in favour 
of virtue and of domestic life, nor could 
any one express it with more grace 
and persuasive eloquence. 


266 ORMOND. 

It did Ormond infinite good. — He 
required such a lesson at this junc- 
ture, and he was capable of taking 
it — it recalled him to his better self. 

The good abbe seemed to see something 
of what passed in Ormond's mind, and 
became still more interested about him. 

" Ah, 9a," said he to Marmontel, as 
soon as Ormond was gone, <e that young 
man is worth something, I thought he 
was only le bel Irlandois, but I find he 
is much more. We must do what we 
can for him, and not let him leave Paris, 
as so many do, having seen only the 
worst part of our society." 

Marmontel, who had also been pleased 
with him, was willing, he said, to do 
any thing in his power, but he could 
scarcely hope, that they had the means 
of drawing, from the double attrac- 
tion of the faro table and coquetry, 
a young man of that age and figure. 

" Fear nothing, or rather hope every 
thing," said the abbe, " his head and his 

OfcMOND. 267 

heart are more in our favour, trust me, 
tfhan his age and his figure are against 
us. — To begin, my good Marmontel, did 
not you see how much he was struck and 
edified by your reformation." 

" Ah ! if their was another Mademoi- 
selle de Montigny for him, I should fear 
nothing, or rather hope every thing," said 
Marmontel, " but where shall he find 
such another in all Paris?" 

" In his own country, perhaps, all in 
good time," said the abbe. 

" In his own country? — True," cried 
Marmontel " now you recal it to my 
mind, how eager he grew in disputing 
with Mariraux, upon the distinction 
between dimable and amiable. — His des- 
cription of an amiable woman, according 
to the English taste, was, I recollect, 
made con amore ; and there was a sigh 
at the close which came from the heart, 
and which shewed the heart was in Eng- 
land or Ireland." 

"Wherever his heart is, vest bien 
N 2 

268 ORMOND. 

place" said the abb6, " I like him — we 
must get him into good company — he is 
worthy to be acquainted with your ami- 
able and aimable Madame de Beauveau, 
and Madame de Seran." 

" True," said Marmontel, " and for 
the honour of Paris, we must convince 
him that he has taken up false notions, 
and that there is such a thing as conjugal 
fidelity, and domestic happiness here." 

" Bon. That is peculiarly incumbent 
on the author of ' Les Contes Moraucc, " 
said the abbe. 

It happened, fortunately for our hero, 
that Madame de Connal was, about this 
time, engaged to pass a fortnight at the. 
country house of Madame de Clairville. — 
During her absence, the good abbe 
had time to put in execution all his bene- 
volent intentions — he introduced his 
young friend to some of the really good 
company of Paris — he pointed out to him 
at Madame Geoffrin's, Madame de Ten- 
cin's, Madame du Deffand's, and Ma- 

ORMOND. 269 

dame Trudaine's — the difference be- 
tween the society at the house of a rich 
farmer general — at the house of one 
connected with the court, and with 
people in place and political power — 
and the society of mixed rank and litera- 
ture. — The mere passing pictures of 
these things, to one who was not to 
live in Paris, might not perhaps, except 
as a matter of curiosity, be of much 
value; but his judicious friend led 
Ormond from these to make comparisons 
and deductions, which were of use to him 
all his life afterward. 



ONE morning when Ormond wakened, 
the first thing that he heard was, that a 
person from Ireland was beloyy, who 
was very impatient to see him. It was 
Patrickson, Sir Ulick O' Shane's confi- 
dential man of business. 

" What news from Castle Hermit- 
age?" cried Ormond, starting up in his 
bed, surprised at the sight of Patrick- 

" The best that can be — never saw 
Sir Ulick in such heart — he has a share 
of the loan, and—" 

" And what news of the Annalys?" 
interrupted Ormond. 

" I know nothing about them at all, 

ORMON9. 27 1 

Sir," sa id Patrickson, who was a me- 
thodical man of business, and whose 
head was always intent upon what 
he called the main chance. — " I have 
been in Dublin, and heard no country 

" But have you no letter for me? and 
what brings you over so suddenly to 

" I have a letter for you somewhere 
here, Sir — only I have so many 'tis hard to 
find," said Patrickson, looking carefully 
over a parcel of letters in his pocket-book, 
but with such a drawling slowness of 
manner, as put Ormond quite out of pa- 
tience. — Patrickson laid the letters on 
the bed one by one. " That's not it — 
and that's not it — that's for Monsieur un 

tel, Marchand, Rue . — That packet's 

from the Hamburgh merchants — What 
brings me over? — Why, Sir, I have bu- 
siness enough, Heaven knows." 

Patrickson was employed not only by 
Sir Ulick O'Shane, but by many Dublin 


merchants and bankers, to settle busi- 
ness for them with different houses on 
the Continent. Ormond, without listening 
to the various digressions he made con- 
cerning the persons of mercantile con- 
sequence, to whom the letters were ad- 
dressed^ or from whom they were answers, 
pounced upon the letter in Sir Ulick's 
hand writing directed to himself, and 
tore it open eagerly, to see if there was 
any news of the Annalys. — None, they 
were still in Devonshire. — The letter 
was merely a few lines on business — Sir 
Ulick had now the opportunity he had 
foreseen, of laying out Ormond's money 
in the loan, most advantageously for 
him, but there had been an omission in 
the drawing up of his power of attor- 
ney, which had been drawn in such a 
hurry on Ormond's leaving home. — It 
gave power only to sell out of the three 
per cents., whereas a great deal of Or- 
mond's money was in the four per cents. 
Another power, Patrickson said, was ne- 

ORMOND. 273 

ce^ary, and be had brought one for him 
to sign. — Patrickson in his slow man- 
ner descanted upon the folly of signing 
papers in a hurry, just when people were 
getting into carriages, which was always 
the way with young gentlemen, he said. 
— He took care that Ormond should do 
nothing in a hurry now ; for he put on 
his spectacles, and read the power, 
sparing him not a syllable of the law 
forms and repetitions. Ormond wrote a 
few kind lines to Sir Ulick, and ear- 
nestly besought him to find out some- 
thing more about the Annalys. — If Miss 
Annaly were married, it must have ap- 
peared in the papers. — What delayed the 
marriage ? Was Colonel Albemarle dis- 
missed or accepted? Where was he? 
— Ormond said he would be content, if 
Sir Ulick could obtain an answer to that 
single plain question. 

All the time Ormond was writing, Pa- 
trickson never stirred his forefinger from 
the spot, where the signature was to be 

n 3 

274 ORMOND. 

written at the bottom of the power of 

" Pray," said Ormond, looking up 
from the paper he was going to sign 
— " Pray, Patrickson, are you really and 
truly an Irishman?" 

" By the father's side I apprehend, 
Sir, — but my mother was English. — 
Stay, Sir, if you please, I must wit- 
ness it." 

" Witness away," said Ormond ; and 
after having signed this paper, empow- 
ering Sir Ulick to sell £30,000 out of 
the four per cents, Ormond lay down, 
and, wishing him a good journey, set- 
tled himself to sleep ; while Patrick- 
son, packing up his papers, deliberately 
said, " he hoped to be in London in 
short, — but that he should go by Havre 
de Grace, and that he should be happy 
to execute any commands for Mr. Or- 
mond there or in Dublin." — More he 
would have said, but finding Ormond by 
this time past reply, he left the room on 

ORMOND. 2 "'j 

tip-toe. The next morning Madame de 
Connal returned from the country, and 
sent Ormond word, that she should ex- 
pect him at her assembly that night. 

Every body complimented Madame de 
Connal upon the improvement, which 
the country air had made in her beau- 
ty. — Even her husband was struck 
with it, and paid her his compliments 
on the occasion, — but she stood con- 
versing so long with Ormond, that the 
faro players grew impatient — she led him 
to the table, but evidently had little in- 
terest herself in the game. — He played 
at first with more than his usual success 
— but late at night his fortune suddenly 
changed, he lost — lost — till at last he 
stopped, and rising from the table, said 
he had no more money, and he could 
play no longer. — Connal, who was not 
one of the players, but merely looking on, 
offered to lend him any sum he pleased. 
" Here's a rouleau — here are two rou- 
leaus, what will you have ?'* said Connal. 

276 ORMOND. 

Ormond declined playing any more — 
he said, " that he had lost the sum he 
had resolved to lose, and there he would 
stop." Connal did not urge him, but 
laughing said, " that a resolution to lose 
at play was the most extraordinary he 
had ever heard." 

" And yet you see I have kept it," said 

" Then I hope you will next make a 
resolution to win," said Connal, " and 
no doubt you will keep that as well. 
1 prophecy that you will — and you 
will give fortune fair play to-morrow 

Ormond simply repeated, that he 
should play no more. — Madame de Con- 
nal soon afterwards rose from the table, 
and went to talk to Mr. Ormond. She 
said, " she was concerned for his loss at 
play this night." He answered, as he 
felt, " that it was a matter of no conse- 
quence to him, that he had done exactly 
what he had determined ; that in the 


ORMOND, 277 

course of the whole time he had been 
losing this money, he had had a great deal 
of amusement in society, had seen a 
vast deal of human nature and manners, 
which he could not otherwise have seen, 
and that he thought his money exceed- 
ingly well employed." 

" But you shall not lose your money," 
said Dora, " when next you play, it 
shall be on my account, us well as your 
own — you know this is not only a com- 
pliment but a solid advantage, Mr. Or- 
mond. — The bank has certain advantages 
— and it is fair that you should share 
them. 1 must explain to you," con- 
tinued Madame de Connal, " they are 
all busy about their own affairs, and we 
may speak in English at our ease. I 
must explain to you, that a good portion 
of my fortune has been settled, so as to 
be at my own disposal, my aunt, you 
know, has also a good fortune, we are 
partners, and put a considerable sum 
into the faro bank — We find it answers 

278 GRMOND. 

well. — You see how handsomely we live. 
— Mr. Connal has his own share. — We 
have nothing to do with that. — If you 
would take my advice," continued she, 
speaking in a very persuasive tone, 
" instead of forswearing play, as you 
seem inclined to do at the first reverse of 
fortune, you would join forces with us; 
you cannot imagine, that / would ad- 
vise you to any thing, that I was not per- 
suaded would be advantageous to you — 
you little know how much I am inte- 
rested." — She checked herself, blushed, 
hesitated— and hurried on, " you ! have 
no ties in Ireland — you seem to like 
Paris? where can you spend your time 
more agreeably ?" 

" More agreeably no where upon 
earth," cried Ormond. Her manner, 
tone, and look at this moment were so 
flattering, so bewitching, that he was 
scarcely master of himself. They went 
to the boudoir — the company had risen 
from the faro-table, and, one after ano- 

ORMOND. 279 

ther, had most of them departed. Con- 
nal was gone — only a few remained in 
a distant apartment, listening to some 
music. It was late. Ormond had never 
till this evening stayed later than the ge- 
nerality of the company, but he had now 
an excuse to himself, something that he 
had long wished to have an opportunity 
of saying to Dora, when she should be 
quite alone ; — it was a word of advice 
about le Comte de Belle-Chasse — her in- 
timacy with him was beginning to be 
talked of. She had been invited to a bal 
pare at the Spanish embassador's for the 
ensuing night — but she had more inclina- 
tion to go to a balmasque, as Ormond 
had heard her declare. Now certain per- 
sons had whispered, that it was to meet 
the Comte de Belle-Chasse that she in- 
tended to go to this ball ; and Ormond 
feared, that such whispers might be inju- 
rious to her reputation. It was difficult 
to him to speak, because the counsels of 
the friend might be mistaken for the jea- 

280 ORMOND. 

lous fears of a lover. With some embar- 
rassment he delicately, timidly, hinted 
his apprehensions. 

Dora, though naturally of a temper 
apt to take alarm at the touch of blame, 
and offence at the tone of advice, now in 
the most graceful manner thanked her 
friend for his counsel, said she was flat- 
tered, gratified, by the interest it shewed 
in her happiness — and she immediately 
yielded her will, her fantaisie, to his bet- 
ter judgement. This compliance, and 
the look with which it was accompanied, 
convinced him of the absolute power he 
possessed over her heart. He was en- 
chanted with Dora, she never looked so 
beautiful ; never before, not even in the 
first days of his early youth, had he felt her 
beauty so attractive. 

" Dear Madame de Connal, dear 
Dora!" he exclaimed. 

" Call me Dora," said she, " I wish 
ever to be Dora to Harry Ormond. — 
Oh ! Harry, my first, my best, my only 

ORMOND. 281 

friend, I have enjoyed but little real hap- 
piness since we parted." 

Tears filled her fine eyes — no longer 
knowing where he was—Harry Ormond 
found himself at her feet. But while he 
held and kissed in transport the beautiful 
hand, which was but feebly withdrawn, 
he seemed to be suddenly shocked by the 
sight of one of the rings on her finger. 

" My wedding ring," said Dora, with 
a sigh. " Unfortunate marriage !" 

That was not the ring on which Or- 
mond's eyes were fixed. 

" Dora, whose grey hair is this?" 

'« My father's," said Dora, in a tremu- 
lous voice. 

" Your father!" cried Ormond, start- 
ing up. 

The full recollection of that fond father, 
that generous benefactor, that confiding 
friend, rushed upon his heart. 

" And is this the return I make ! — Oh, 
if he could see us at this instant !" 

" And if he could," cried Dora, "oh! 

282 ORMOND* 

how he would admire and love you, Or- 
mond, and how he would — " 

Her voice failed, and with a sudden 
motion she hid her face with both her 

" He would see you, Dora, without a 
guide, protector, friend ; surrounded with 
admirers, among profligate men, and wo- 
men still more profligate, yet he would 
see you have preserved a reputation of 
which your father would be proud." 

" My father, oh! my poor father," 
cried Dora — " Ob! generous, dear, ever 
generous Ormond f 

Bursting into tears — alternate passions 
seizing her — at one moment, the thoughts 
of her father, the next of her lover, pos- 
sessed her imagination. 

At this instant the noise of some one 
approaching recalled them both to their 
senses. They were found in earnest con- 
versation about a party of pleasure that 
was to be arranged for the next day. 
Madame de Connal made Ormond pro- 

OSMOND. 283 

mise, that he would come the next morn- 
ing, and settle every thing with M. de 
Connal for their intended expedition into 
the country. 

The next day, as Ormond was return- 
ing to Madame de Connal's, with the 
firm intention of adhering to the honour- 
able line of conduct he had traced out for 
himself — just as he was crossing the Pont 
Neuf, some one ran full against him. 
Surprised at what happens so seldom in 
the streets of Paris, where all meet, pass, 
or cross in crowds with magical celerity 
and address, he looked back, and at the 
same instant the person who had passed 
looked back also. An apparition in 
broad day-light could not have surprised 
Ormond more than the sight of this per- 
son. — " Could it be — could it possibly be 
Moriarty Carroll, on the Pont Neuf in 

" By the blessing, then, it's the man 
himself — Master Harry ! — though I didn't 
know him through the French disguise. 

284 ORMOND. 

Oh ! master, then I've been tried and 
cast, and all but hanged — sentenced to 
Botany — transported any way — for a rob- 
bery I didn't commit, since I saw you last. 
But your honour's uneasy, and it's not 
proper I know to be stopping a jantle- 
man in the street; but I have a word to say 
that will bear no delay, not a minut e.' 

Ormond's surprise and curiosity in- 
creased — he desired Moriarty to follow 

" And now Moriarty what is it you 
have to say ?" 

" It is a long story then, please your 
honour. — I was transported to Botany, 
though innocent. But first and foremost 
for what consarns your honour first." 

" First," said Ormond, " if you were 
transported, how came you here ?" 

" Because I was not transported, plase 
your honour, only sentenced — for I es- 
caped from Kilmainham, where I was 
sent to be put on board the tender ; but I 
got on board of an American ship, by the 

ORMOND. 285 

help of a friend — and this ship being 
knocked against the rocks, I come safe 
ashore in this country on one of the sticks 
of the vessel j so when I knowed it was 
France I was in, and recollected Miss 
Dora that was married in Paris, I thought 
if I could just make my way any hows 
to Paris, she'd befrind me in case of 

" But, dear master," said Moriarty, 
interrupting, " it's a folly to talk — I'll 
not tell you a word more of myself till you 
hear the news I have for you. The worst 
news I have to tell you is, there is great 
fear of the breaking of Sir Ulick's bank!'* 

" The breaking of Sir Ulick's bank ? 
I heard from him to-day." 

" May be you did, but the captain 
of the American ship in which 1 came 
was complaining of his having been kept 
two hours at that bank, where they were 
paying large sums in small notes, and 
where there was the greatest run upon 
the house that ever was seen." 

Ormond instantly saw his danger — he 

286 OfcMOND. 

recollected the power of attorney he had 
signed the preceding day. But Patrick- 
son was to go by Havre de Grace — that 
would delay him. — It was possible that 
Ormond by setting out instantly might 
get to London time enough to save his 
property. He went directly and ordered 
post horses. He had no debts at Paris, 
nothing but to pay for his stables and 
lodging. He had a faithful servant, 
whom he could leave behind, to make all 
necessary arrangements. 

" You are right, jewel, to be in a 
hurry," said Carroll. " But sure you 
won't leave poor Moriarty behind ye here, 
in distress, when he has no friend in the 
wide world but yourself." 

K Tell me, in the first place, Moriarty, 
are you innocent?" 

" Upon my conscience, master, I am 
perfectly innocent as the child unborn, 
both of the murder ami the robbery. If 
your honour will give me leave, I'll tell 
you the whole story." 

" That will be a long affair, Moriarty, 

OHMOND. 287 

if you talk out of the face as you used to 
do — I will, however, find an opportunity 
to hear it all. But, in the mean time* 
stay where you are till 1 return." 

Ormond went instantly to O'Connal's, 
to inform him of what had happened. 
His astonishment was obviously mixed 
with disappointment. But to do him jus- 
tice, besides the interest which he really 
had in the preservation of the fortune, he 
felt some personal regard for Ormond 

" Wkat shall we do without you ?" said 
he. " I assure you, Madame and I have 
never been so happy tog-ether since the 
first month after our marriage, as we 
have been since you came to Paris." 

Connal was somewhat consoled by 
hearing Ormond say, that if he was time 
enough in London to save his fortune, he 
proposed returning immediately to Paris, 
intending to make the tour of Switzerland 
and Italy. 

Connal had no doubt that they should 
yet be able to fix him at Paris, 

288 ORMOND. 

Madame de Connal and Mademoiselle 
were out, Connal did not know where 
they were gone. Ormond was glad to 
tear himself away with as few adieus as 
possible. He got into his travelling car- 
riage, put his servant on the box, and 
took Moriarty with him in the carriage, 
that he might relate his history at leisure. 

" Plase your honour," said Moriarty, 
" Mr. Marcus never missed any oppor- 
tunity of shewing me ill will \ the super- 
cargo of the ship that was cast away, 
when you were with Sir Herbert An- 
naly, God rest his soul, came down to 
the sea-side to look for some of the things 
that he had lost. The day after he came, 
early in the morning, his horse, and 
bridle, and saddle, and a surtoo coat, was 
found in a lane, near the place where 
we lived, and the supercargo was never 
heard any more of. Suspicion fell upon 
many, — the country rung with the noise 
that was made about this murder, — and 
at last I was taken up for it, because 

ORMOND. 289 

people had seen me buy cattle at the 
fair, and the people would not believe 
it was with money your honour sent 
me by the good parson — for the parson 
was gone out of the country, and I had 
nobody to stand my friend ; for Mr. Mar- 
cus was on the grand jury, and the sheriff 
was his friend, and Sir Ulick was in 
Dublin, at the Bank. Howsomdever, 
after a long trial, which lasted the whole 
day, a 'cute lawyer on my side found 
out, that there was no proof that any 
body had been murdered, and that a 
man might lose his horse, his saddle, 
and his bridle, and his big coat, without 
being kilt : so that the judge ordered 
the jury to let me off for the murder. 
Then they tried me for the robbery ; and 
sure enough that went again me : for 
a pair of silver mounted pistols, with 
a man's name engraved upon them, was 
found in my house. They knew the man's 
name by the letters in the big coat. — 
The judge asked me, what I had to say 

VOL. 111. O 


for myself — ' My Lard,' says I, 6 those 
pistols were brought into my house about 
a fortnight ago, by a little boy, one little 
Tommy Dunshaughlin, who found them 
in a punk-horn, at the edge of a bog- 

" The jidge favoured me more than 
the jury — for he asked how old the boy 
was, and whether I could produce him? 
The little fellow was brought into court, 
and it was surprising how clear he told 
his story. — The jidge listened to the 
child, young as he was. But M'Crule 
was on the jury, and said that he knew 
the child to be as cunning as any in 
Ireland, and that he would not believe 
a word that came out of his mouth. 
So the short and the long of it was, I 
was condemned to be transported. 

" It would have done you good, if 
you'd heard the cry in the court, when 
sentence was given, for I was loved 
in the country. Poor Peggy and Shee- 
lah ! — But I'll not be troubling your 

ORMOND. 29 i 

honour's tender heart with our parting. 
I was transmuted to Dublin, to be put 
on board the tender, and lodged in Kil- 
mainham, waiting for the ship that was 
to go to Botany. I had not been long 
there, when another prisoner was brought 
to the same room with me. — He was 
a handsome looking man, about thirty 
years of age, — of the most penetrating 
eye, and determined countenance, that 
I ever saw. He appeared to be worn 
down with ill health, and his limbs much 
swelled : notwithstanding which, he had 
strong hand-cuffs on his wrists, and he 
seemed to be guarded with uncommon 
care. He begged the turnkey to lay 
him down upon the miserable iron bed 
that was in the cell; and he begged him, 
for God's sake, to let him have a jug 
of water by his bed-side, and to leave 
him to his fate. 

* f I could not help pitying this poor 
creature j I went to him, and offered 
him any assistance in my power. He 


292 ORMOND. 

answered me shortly—' What are you 
here for?'— I told him.—* Well,' says 
he, « whether you are guilty or not, is 
your affair, not mine ; but answer me at 
onC e. — Are you a good man ? — Can you 
go through with a thing ? — and are you 
steel to the back bone ?' — « I am,' said 
1. — « Then,' said he, '* you are a lucky 
ma n — for he that is talking to you is 
Michael Dunne, who knows how to make 
his way out of any jail in Ireland.' 
Saying this, he sprung with great ac- 
tivity from the bed. — « It is my cue,' 
said he, ' to be sick and weak, when- 
ever the turnkey comes in, to put him 
off his guard — for they have all orders 
to watch me strictly ; because as how, 
do you see, I broke out of the jail of 
Trim ; and when they catched me, they 
took me before his honour the police 
magistrate, who did all he could to get 
out of me, the way which I made my 
escape,' ' Well,' says the magistrate, 
' I'll put you in a place where you can't 

ORMOND. 293 

get out — till you're sent to Botany.' — 
' Plase your worship,' says I, ' if there's 
no offence in saying it, there's no such 
place in Ireland.' — * No such place as 
what?' — « No such place as will hold 
Michael Dunne.' — ' What do you think 
of Kilmainham ?' says he. — ' I think it's 
a fine jail — and it will be no asy matter 
to get out of it — but it is not impossible.' 
— ' Well, Mr. Dunne,' said the magis- 
trate, * I have heard of your fame, and 
that you have secrets of your own for 
getting out. Now if you'll tell me how 
you got out of the jail of Trim, I'll make 
your confinement at Kilmainham as asy 
as may be, so as to keep you safe ; and 
if you do not, you must be ironed, and 
I will have sentinels from an English 
regiment, who shall be continually chang- 
ed — so that you can't get any of them 
to help you.' — ' Plase your worship,' 
said Dunne, * that's very hard usage — 
but I know as how, that you are going 
to build new jails all over Ireland, and 

294 ORMOND. 

that you'd be glad to know the best way 
to make them secure.— -If your worship 
will promise me, that if I get out of 
Rilmainham, and if I tell you how I 
do it, that you'll get me a free pardon, 
I'll try hard but what before three 
months are over, I'll be a prisoner at 
large.' — ' That's more than I can pro- 
mise you,' Said the magistrate, * but if 
you will disclose to me the best means 
of keeping other people in, I will en- 
deavour to keep you from Botany Bay.' 
— ' Now, Sir,' says Dunne, ' I know your 
worship to be a man of honour, and that 
your own honour regards yourself, and 
not me; so that if I was ten times as 
bad as I am, you'd keep your promise 
with me, as well as if I was the best 
gentleman in Ireland. — So that now, 
Mr. Moriarty,' said Dunne, * do you 
see, if I get out. I shall be safe ; and if 
you get out along with me, you have 
nothing to do but to go over to America. 
And if you are a married man, and 

ORMOND. 295 

tired of your wife, you'll get rid of her. 
If you are not tired of her, and you have 
any substance, she may sell it and follow 

" There was something 1 , Master Harry, 
about this man, that made me have 
great confidence in him — and I was 
ready to follow his advice. Whenever 
the turnkey was coming, he was groan- 
ing and moaning on the bed. At other 
times he made me keep bathing his 
wrists with cold water, so that in three 
or four days they were not half the size 
they were at first. This change he kept 
carefully from the jailor. I observed 
that he frequently asked what day of 
the month it was, but that he never 
made any attempt to speak to the sen- 
tinels; nor did he seem to make any 
preparation, or to lay any scheme for 
getting out. — I held my tongue, and 
waited qui'tely. At last, he took out of 
his pocket a little flageolet, and began to 
play upon it. He asked me if I could 

296 ORMOND. 

play, I said I could a little, but very 
badly. I don't care how bad it is, 
if you can play at all. He got off the 
bed where he was lying-, and with the 
utmost ease, pulled his hands out of his 
hand-cuffs. Besides the swelling of his 
wrists having- gone down, he had some 
method of getting rid of his thumb, 
that I never could understand. Says 
I, * Mr. Dunne, the jailor will miss the 
fetters.' No,' said he, « for I will put 
them on again,' — and so he did, with 
great ease. — 'Now,' said he, « it is time 
to begin our work.' 

" He took off one of his shoes, and tak- 
ing out the in-sole, he shewed me a hole, 
— that was cut where the heel was, in 
which there was a little small flat bottle 
which he told me was the most precious 
thing in life. And under the rest of the 
sole, there were a number of saws, made 
of watch spring, that lay quite flat and 
snug under his foot. The next time the 
turnkey came in, he begged, for the love 

ORMOND. 297 

of God, to have a pipe and some tobacco, 
which was accordingly granted to him.. 
What the pipes and tobacco were for, I 
could not then guess, but they were found 
to be useful. — He now made a paste of 
some of the bread of his allowance, with 
which he made a cup round the bottom 
of one of the bars of the window ; into 
this cup, he poured some of the con- 
tents of the little bottle, which was, I 
believe, oil of vitriol ; in a little time, this 
made a bad smell, and it was then I 
found the use of the pipe and tobacco, 
for the smell of the tobacco quite 
bothered the smell of the vitriol. — 
When he thought he had softened the 
iron bar sufficiently, he began to work 
away with the saws, and he soon taught 
me how to use them ; so that we kept 
working on continually, no matter how 
little we did at a time ; but as we 
were constantly at it — what I thought 
never could be done, was finished in 
ihree or four days. The use of the 

298 ORMOND. 

flageolet was to drown the noise of 
the filing ; for when one filed, the other 

" When the bar was cut through, 
he fitted the parts nicely together, 
and covered them over with rust.— 'He 
proceeded in the same manner, to cut 
out another bar ; so that we had a free 
opening out of the window. Our cell 
was at the very top of the jail, so 
that even to look down to the ground 
was terrible. 

" Under various pretences, we had 
got an unusual quantity of blankets on 
our beds ; these he examined with the 
utmost care, as upon their strength our 
lives were to depend. We calculated 
with great coolness, the breadth of the 
strips into which he might cut the 
blankets, so as to reach from the win- 
dow to the ground j allowing for the 
knots by which they were to be join- 
ed, and for oilier knots that were to 
hinder the hands and feet from slipping. 

ORMONA. 299 

" « Now,' said he, ' Mr. Moriarty, 
all this is quite easy, and requires no- 
thing 1 but a determined heart and a 
sound head : but the difficulty is to 
baffle the sentinel that is below, and 
who is walking backward and forward 
continually, day and night, under the 
window ; and there is another, you see, 
in a sentry-box, at the door of the 
yard : and, for all I know, there may 
be another sentinel at the other side 
of the wall. Now these men were 
never on the same duty ; I have friends 
enough out of doors, who have money 
enough, and would have talked rason 
to them : but as these sentinels are 
changed every day, no good can be got 
of them : but stay till to-morrow night, 
and we'll try what we can do.' 

I was determined to follow him. — 
The next nigfht, the moment that we 
were locked in for the night, we set 
to work to cut the blankets into slips, 
and tied tbem together with the utmost 


care and assiduity. We put this rope 
round one of the fixed bars of the 
window; and, pulling at each knot, 
we satisfied ourselves that every part 
was sufficiently strong. Dunne looked 
frequently out of the window, with the 
utmost anxiety — it was a moonlight 

" * The moon,' said he, ' will be 
down in an hour and a half.' 

" In a little while we heard the noise 
of several girls' singing at a distance 
from the windows, and we could see, as 
they approached, that they were dancing, 
and making free with the sentinels: I 
saw that they were provided with bottles 
of spirits, with which they pledged 
the deluded soldiers. By degrees the 
sentinels forgot their dutyj and, by 
the assistance of some laudanum con- 
tained in some of the spirits, they were 
left senseless on the ground. The whole 
of this plan, and the very night and 
hour, had been arranged by Dunne 

ORMOND. 301 

with his associates, before he was put 
into Kilmainham. The success of this 
scheme, which was totally unexpected 
by me, gave me, I suppose, plase your 
honour, fresh courage. He, very ho- 
nourably, gave me the choice of to 
go down first or to follow him. I was 

ashamed not to go first : after I 

had got out of the window, and had 
fairly hold of the rope, my fear 
diminished, and 1 went cautiously 
down to the bottom. — Here I waited 
for Dunne, and we both of us si- 
lently stole along in the dark, for the 
moon had gone in, and did not meet 
with the least obstruction. Our out of 
doors assistants had the prudence to get 
entirely out of sight. Dunne led me 
to a hiding place in a safe part of the 
town, and committed me to the care 
of a sea-faring man, who promised to 
get me on board an American ship. 
" * As for my part,' said Dunne, • I 

302 ORMONB. 

will afo in the morning, boldly, to the 
magistrate, and claim his promise.' 

" He did so and the magistrate, 

with good sense, and good faith, kept his 
promise, and obtained a pardon for 

" I wrote to Peggy, to get aboard 
an American ship. — 1 was cast away on 
the coast of France — made my way to 
the first religious house that I could hear 
of, where 1 luckily found an Irishman, 
who saved me from starvation, and whf 
sent me on from convent to convent, till 

I got to Paris, where your honour met me 
on that bridge, just when I was looking 
for Miss Dora's house. And that's all 
I've got to tell,'' concluded Moriarty, 

II and all true." 

No adventures, of any sort, happened 
to our hero, in the course of his journey. 
The wind was fair for England, when 
he reached Calais : — he had a good pas- 
sage, with all the expedition that good 
horses, good roads, good money, and civil 

ORMOND. 303 

words insure in England: — he- pursued 
his way: — he arrived in the shortest 
time possible in London. 

He came to town in the morning-, be- 
fore the usual hour when the banks are 
open. — Leaving" orders with his servant, 
on whose punctuality he thought he 
could depend to waken him at the proper 
hour, he lay down overcome with fatigue 
and slept — yes — slept soundly. 

304 ORMOND. 


(JRMOND was wakened at the proper 
hour — went immediately to ****'s bank>. 
It was but just open, and beginning to 
do business. He had never been there 
before — his person was not known to any 
of the firm. He entered a long narrow 
room, so dark at the entrance from the 
street, that he could at first scarcely see 
what was on either side of him — a clerk 
from some obscure nook, and from a 
desk higher than himself, put out his 
head, with a long quill behind his ear, 
and looked at Ormond as he came in. 

*' Pray, Sir, am I right? — Is this Mr. 
****'s bank ?" 

«« Yes, surely, Sir." 

ORMOND. 305 

With mercantile economy of words 
the clerk, with a motion of his head, 
pointed out to Ormond the way he 
should go — and continued casting up his 
books. Ormond walked down the 
narrow aisle, and it became light as he 
advanced towards a large window at the 
farther end, before which three clerks 
sat at a table opposite to him. A person 
stood with his back to Ormond, and was 
speaking earnestly to one of the clerks, 
who leaned over the table listening. 
Just as Ormond came up, he heard his 
own name mentioned — he recollected the 
voice — he recollected the back of the 
figure — the very bottle-green coat — it 
was Patrickson ! — Ormond stood still 
behind him — and waited to hear what 
was going on — 

" Sir," said the clerk, " it is a very 
sudden order for a very large sum." 

«' True, Sir — but you see my power — 
you know Mr. Ormond's hand-writing — 
and you know Sir Ulick O'Shane's — " 

306 ORMOND. 

" Mr. James," said the principal 
clerk, turning to one of the others, " be 
so good to hand me the letters we have 
of Mr. Ormond's — As we have never 
seen the gentleman sign his name, Sir, 
it is necessary that we should be more 
particular in comparing." 

" Oh, Sir, no doubt, compare as much 
as you please — no doubt people cannot 
be too exact and deliberate in doing 

** It certainly is his signature," said 
the clerk. 

" I witnessed the paper," said Patrick- 

" Sir — I don't dispute it," replied 
the clerk, '* but you cannot blame us 
for being cautious, when such a very 
large sum is in question, and when 
we have no letter of advice from the 

" But I tell you I come straight from 
Mr. Ormond j I saw him last Tuesday at 
Paris — " 

ORMOND. 307 

- And you see him now, Sir," said 
Ormond, advancing — 

Patrickson's countenance changed be- 
yond all power of control. 

" Mr. Ormond ! — I thought you were 
at Paris !" 

" Mr. Patrickson ! I thought you were 
at Havre de Grace — What brought you 
here so suddenly ?" 

'* I acted for another," — hesitated 
Patrickson, — " I therefore made no de- 

" And thank Heaven !" said Ormond, 
" I have acted for myself ! — but just in 

time ! Sir," continued he, addressing 

himself to the principal clerk ; ** Gentle- 
men, I have to return you my thanks for 
your caution — it has actually saved me 
from ruin — for I understand—" 

Ormond suddenly stopped, recollect- 
ing, that he might injure Sir Ulick 
O'Shane essentially, by a premature dis- 
closure, or by repeating a report, which 
might be ill-founded. 

308 ORMOND. 

He turned again to speak to Patrick- 
son, but Patrickson had disappeared. 

Then continuing to address himself to 
the clerks, " Gentlemen," (said Ormond, 
speaking carefully) " have you heard 
any thing of ov from Sir Ulick Q'Shane 
lately, except what you may have heard 
from this Mr. Patrickson ?" 

" Not from, but of Sir Ulick O'Shane 
we heard from our Dublin correspon- 
dent, in due course we have heard," 
replied the head clerk. " Too true, I am 
afraid, Sir, that his bank had come to 
paying in sixpences on Saturday." 

The second clerk seeing great concern 
in Ormond's countenance, added — 

" But Sunday, you know, is in their 
favour, Sir ; and Monday and Tuesday 
are holidays, so they may stand the run 
and recover yet." 

" With the help of this gentleman's 
thirty thousand, they might have reco- 
vered, perhaps — but Mr. Ormond would 
scarce have recovered it." 

ORMOND. 309 

As to the ten thousand pounds in the 
three per cents, of which Sir Ulick had 
obtained possession a month ago, that was 
irrecoverable, ifh\s bank should break." 
— " If" — The clerks all spoke with due 
caution ; — but their opinion was suffi- 
ciently plain — They were honestly in- 
dignant against the guardian who had 
thus attempted to ruin his ward. 

Though almost stunned and breathless 
with the sense of the danger he had so nar- 
rowly escaped, yet Ormond's instinct of 
generosity, if we may use the expression, 
and his gratitude for early kindness ope- 
rated ; he would not believe that Sir Ulick 
had been guilty of a deliberate desire to in- 
jure him. At all events, he determined 
that, instead of returning to France, as 
he had intended, he would go immedi- 
ately to Ireland, and try if it were pos- 
sible to assist Sir Ulick, without mate- 
rially injuring himself. 

Having ordered horses, he made in- 
quiry wherever he thought he might 


310 ©RMOND. 

obtain information with respect to the 
Annalys. — All that he could learn was, 
that they were at some sea-bathing 
place in the south of England, and that 
Miss Annaly was still unmarried. A ray 
of hope darted into the mind of our hero 
— and he began his journey to Ireland 
with feelings, which every good and 
generous mind will know how to appre- 

He had escaped at Paris from a 
temptation, which it was scarcely pos* 
sible to resist. He had by decision and 
activity preserved his fortune from ruin 
— he had under his protection an humble 
friend, whom he had saved from banish- 
ment and disgrace, and whom he hoped 
to restore to his wretched wife and 
family. Forgetful of the designs that 
had been meditated against him by his 
guardian, to whose necessities he attri- 
buted his late conduct, he hastened to 
his immediate assistance, determined to 
do every thing in his power to save Sir 

ORMOND. .311 

Ulick from ruin, if his difficulties arose 
from misfortune, and not from crimi- 
nality—if, on the contrary, he should 
find that Sir Ulick was fraudulently a 
bankrupt — he determined to quit Ireland 
immediately, and to resume his scheme 
ef foreign travel. 

The system of posting had at this time 
been carried to the highest perfection in 
England. It was the amusement and 
the fashion of the time to squander large 
sums in hurrying from place to place, 
without any immediate motive for ar- 
riving at the end of a journey, but 
that of having the satisfaction of boast- 
ing in what a short time it had been per- 
formed — or, as it is expressed in one of 
our comedies, " to enter London like a 
meteor, with a prodigious tail of dust." 

Moriarty Carroll, who was perched 
upon the box with Ormond's servant, 
made excellent observations, wherever 
he went. His English companion could 
not comprehend how a man of common 

312 ORMOND. 

sense could by ignorant of various things, 
which excited the wonder and curiosity 
of Moriarty. Afterwards, however, 
when they travelled in Ireland, Moriarty 
had as much reason to be surprised at 
the impression, which Irish manners and 
customs made upon his companion. 

After a prosperous and rapid journey 
to Holyhead, our hero found to his mor- 
tification, that the packet had sailed with 
a fair wind about half an hour before his 

Notwithstanding his impatience, he 
learned that it was impossible to over- 
take the vessel in a boat, and that he 
must wait for the sailing of the next 
day's packet. 

Fortunately, however, the Lord Lieu- 
tenant's secretary arrived from London 
at Holyhead time enough for the tide, 
and as he had an order from the Post- 
office for a packet to sail, whenever he 
should require it, the intelligent landlord 
of the inn suggested to Ormond, that he 

ORMOND. 313 

might probably obtain permission from 
the secretary to have a birth in this 

Ormond's manner and address were 

such as to obtain from the good-natured 

and well-bred secretary the permission 

he required ; and, in a short time, he 

found himself out of sight of the coast of 

Wales. During the beginning of their 

voyage, the motion of the vessel was so 

steady, and the weather so fine, that 

every body remained on deck ; but on 

the wind shifting and becoming more 

violent, the landsmen soon retired below 

decks, and poor Moriarty and his 

English companion slunk down into the 

steerage, submitting to their fate. Or- 

mond was never sea-sick ; he walked 

the deck, and enjoyed the admirable 

manoeuvring of the vessel. Two or three 

naval officers, and some other passengers, 

who were used to the sea, and who had 

quietly gone to bed during the beginning 

of the voyage, now came from below, to 


314 OltMOND. 

avoid the miseries of the cabin. As one 
of these gentlemen walked backwards 
and forwards upon deck, he eyed our 
hero from time to time with looks of 
anxious curiosity — Ormond perceiving 
this, addressed the stranger, and en- 
quired from him whether he had mis- 
taken his looks, or whether he had any 
wish to speak to him. — " Sir," said the 
stranger, " I do think that 1 have seen 
you before, and I believe that I am 
under considerable obligations to you — I 
was supercargo to that vessel that was 
wrecked on the coast of Ireland, when 
you and your young friend exerted your- 
selves to save the vessel from plunder. — 
After the shipwreck, the moment I 
found myself on land, I hastened to the 
neighbouring town to obtain protection 
and assistance. In the mean time, your 
exertions had saved a great deal of our 
property, which was lodged in safety in 
the neighbourhood. 1 had procured a 
horse in the town to which I had gone, 

ORMOND, 3t& 

and had ridden back to the shore with 
the utmost expedition. Along- with the 
vessel which had been shipwrecked, there 

had sailed another American sloop We 

were both bound from New York to 
.Bourdeaux. In the morning- after the 
shipwreck, our consort hove in sight of 
the wreck, and sent a boat on shore, to 
inquire what had become of the crew, 
and of the cargo, but they found not a 
human creature on the shore, except my- 
self. — The plunderers had escaped to 
their hiding places, and all the rest of 
the inhabitants had accompanied the 
body of the poor young gentleman, who 
had fallen a sacrifice to his exertions in 
our favour. 

" It was of the utmost consequence to 
my employers, that I should arrive as 
soon as possible at Bourdeaux, to give 
an account of what had happened. — I 
therefore, without hesitation, abandoned 
my horse, with its bridle and saddle, 
and 1 got on board the American vessel 

p 2 

316 ORMOND. 

without delay. — In my hurry I forgot my 
great coat on the shore, a loss which 
proved extremely inconvenient to me — 
as there were papers in the pockets, 
which might be necessary to produce be- 
fore my employers. 

" 1 arrived safely at Bourdeaux, settled 
with my principals to their satisfaction, 
and 1 am now on my way to Ireland, to 
reclaim such part of my property, and 
that of my employers, as was saved from 
the savages, who pillaged us in our dis- 
tress." This detail, which was given 

with great simplicity and precision, ex- 
cited considerable interest among the 
persons upon the deck of the packet. 
Moriarty, who was pretty well recovered 
from his sickness, was now summoned 
upon deck. Ormond confronted him with 
the American supercargo, but neither of 
them had the least recollection of each 
other. — " And yet," said Ormond to the 
American, " though you do not know this 
man— he is at this moment under sen- 

ORMOND. 31 7 

tence of transportation for having rob- 
bed you — and he very narrowly escaped 
being hanged for your murder. — A fate 
from which he was saved by the patience 
and sagacity of the judge who tried him." 

Moriarty's surprise was expressed with 
such strange contortions of delight, and 
with a tone, and in a phraseology, so 
peculiarly his own, as to astonish and 
entertain the spectators. — Among these 
was the Irish secretary, who, without any 
application being made to him, pro- 
mised Moriarty to procure for him a free 

On Ormond's landing in Dublin, the 
first news he heard, and it was repeated 
a hundred times in a quarter of an hour, 
was that " Sir Ulick O'Shane was bank- 
rupt — that his bank shut up yesterday. 
- — It was a public calamity, a private 
source of distress, that reach d lower 
and farther than any bankruptcy had 
ever done in Ireland." — Ormond heard 
of it from every tongue, it was written 

3 18 ORMONI). 

in every face — in every house it was the 
subject of lamentation, of invective. In 
every street poor men, with ragged notes 
in their hands, were stopping to pore 
over the names at the back of the notes, 
or hurrying to and fro, looking up at the 
shop windows for " half price given here 
for O' Shane's notes." Groups of people, of 
all ranks, gathered — stopped — dispersed, 
talking of Sir Ulick O' Shane's bank- 
ruptcy— their hopes — their fears — their 
losses — their ruin — their despair — their 
rage. Some said it was all owing to Sir 
Ulick's shameful extravagance ! — " His 
house in Dublin, fit for a duke! — Castle 
Hermitage full of company to the last 
week — balls — dinners, champagne, bur- 
gundy ! — scandalous ! — " 

Others accused Sir Ulick's absurd spe- 
culations. — Many pronounced the bank- 
ruptcy to be fraudulent, and asserted 
that an estate had been made over to 
Marcus, who would live in affluence on 
the ruin of the creditors. 

ORMOND. 319 

At Sir Ulick's house in town, every 

window shutter was closed. Ormond 

rang and knocked in vain — not that he 
wished to see Sir Ulick — no, he would 
not have intruded on his misery for the 
world, — but Ormond longed to inquire 
from the servants how things were with 
him. — No servant could be seen. — Or- 
mond went to Sir Ulick's bank. — Such 
crowds of people filled the street, that it 
was with the utmost difficulty, and after a 
great working of elbows, that in an 
hour or two, he made his way to one of 
the barred windows. — There was a place 
where notes were handed in and accept- 
ed, as they called it, by the clerks, who 
thus for the hour soothed and pacified 
the sufferers, with the hopes that this 
acceptance would be good, and would 
stand in stead at some future day. — They 
were told, that when things should come 
to a settlement, all would be paid. — 
There was property enough to satisfy the 
creditors, when the commissioners should 

320 ORMOND. 

look into it. — Sir Ulick would pay all 
honourably — as far as possible — fifteen 
shillings in the pound, or certainly ten 
shillings— the accepted notes would pass 
for that any where — the crowd pressed 
closer and closer, arms crossing over 
each other to get notes in at the window, 
the clerks' heads appearing and disap- 
pearing. It was said they were laugh- 
ing, while they thus deluded the people. 

All the intelligence, that Ormond, after 
being nearly suffocated, could obtain 
from any of the clerks, was, that Sir 
Ulick was in the country. " They be- 
lieved at Castle Hermitage — could not be 
certain — had no letters from him to day 
— he was ill when they heard last — so 
ill he could do no business — confined to 
his bed.'' 

The people in the street hearing these 
answers replied — " confined in his bed 
is he ? — In the jail it should be, as many 
will be — along with him — 111 k he, Sir 
Ulick ? — Sham sickness may be — all hk 

ORMOND. 321 

life a sham." — All these, and innumerable 
other taunts and imprecations, with which 
the poor people vented their rage — Or- 
mond heard as he made his way out of 
the crowd. 

Of all who had suffered, he who had 
probably lost the most, and who cer- 
tainly had been on the brink of losing 
the greatest part of what he possessed, was 
the only individual who uttered no re- 

He was impatient to get down to 
Castle Hermitage, and if he found that 
Sir Ulick had acted fairly, to be some 
comfort to him, to be with him at least 
when deserted by all the rest of the 

At all the inns upon the road, as he 
went from Dublin to Castle Hermitage, 
even at the villages where he stopped to 
water the horses, every creature, down 
to the hostlers, were talking of the bank- 
ruptcy — and abusing Sir Ulick 0*Shane 
and his son. The curses that were deep, 

322 ORMOND. 

not loud, were the worst — and the faces 
of distress worse than all. Gathering 
round his carriage, wherever it stopped, 
the people questioned him and his ser- 
vants about the news, and then turned 
away, saying they were ruined. The 
men stood in unutterable despair. — The 
women crying, loudly bewailed, — " their 
husbands, their sons, that must waste in 
the jail, or fly the country, for what 
should they do for the rents that had been 
made up in Sir Ulick's notes, and no 
good now." 

Ormond felt the more on hearing these 
complaints, from his sense of the abso- 
lute impossibility of relieving the uni- 
versal distress. 

He pursued his melancholy journey, 
and took Moriarty into the carriage with 
him, that he might not be recognized on 
the road. 

When he came within sight of Castle 
Hermitage, he stopped at the top of the 
hill at a cottage, where many a time in his 

ORMOND. 323 

boyish days he had rested with Sir Ufick 
out hunting. The mistress of the house, 
now an old woman, came to the door. 

" Master Harry! dear!" cried she, 
when she saw who it was. — But the sud- 
den flash of joy in her old face was over 
in an instant. 

" But did you hear it?" cried she, 
" and the great change it caused him — 
poor Sir XJlick O' Shane — I went up 
with eggs on purpose to see him, but 
could only hear — he was in his bed — 
wasting with trouble — nobody knows 
any thing more — all is kept hush and 
close.— 'Mr. Marcus took off all he could 
rap and ran, even to — " 

11 Well, well, I don't want to hear 
of Marcus — can you tell me whether 
Dr. Cam bray is come home?" 

" Not expected to come til! Monday." 

4t Are you sure ?" 

" Oh ! — not a morning but I'm there 
the first thing, asking, and longing for 

324 ORMOND. 

" Lie back Moriarty in the carriage, 
and pull your hat over your face," whis- 
pered Ormond, " postillions, drive on to 
that little cabin, with the trees about it, 
at the foot of the hill."— This was Mori- 
arty's Cabin — when they stopped, poor 
Peggy was called out. — Alas ! how alter- 
ed from the dancing, sprightly, blooming 
girl, whom Ormond had known so few 
years since in the Black Islands. — How 
different from the happy wife, whom he 
had left, comfortably settled in a cot- 
tage suited to her station and her wishes. 
She was thin, pale, and haggard — her 
dress was neglected — an ill-nursed child, 
that she had in her arms, she gave to a 
young girl near her. — Approaching the 
carriage, and seeing Harry Ormond, she 
seemed ready to sink into the earth, — 
however, after having drank some water, 
she recovered sufficiently to be able to 
answer Ormond's enquiries. 

" What do you intend to do, Peggy ?" 
44 Do, Sir! — go to America to join 

ORMOND. 325 

my husband sure; every thing was to 
have been sold, Monday last— but no- 
body has any money— and I am tould it 
will cost a great deal to get across the 


-At this she burst into tears, and cried 
most bitterly — at this moment the car- 
riage door burst open— Moriarty's im- 
patience conld be no longer restrained 

he flung himself into the arms of his 

Leaving this happy and innocent cou- 
ple to enjoy their felicity — we proceed to 
Castle Hermitage. 

Ormond direcieu the postillions to go 
the back way to the house. — They drove 
on down an old avenue. 

Presently they saw a boy, who seemed 
to be standing on the watch, run back to- 
wards the Castle — leaping over hedge and 
ditch with desperate haste. — Then came 
running from the house throe men, calling 
to one another to shut the gates for the 
love of God ! 

326 ORMOND. 

They all ran towards the gateway, 
through which the postillions were go- 
ing- to drive — reached it, just as the fore- 
most horses turned, and flung the gate 
full against the horses' heads. — The men, 
without looking or caring, went on lock- 
ing the gate. 

Ormond jumped out of the carriage 
-—at the sight of him, the padlock 
fell from the hand of the man who 
held it. 

" Master Harry, himself !— and is it 
you? — We ask your pardon, your ho- 

The men were three of Sir Ulick's 
workmen — Ormond forbad the carriage 
to follow. 

" For perhaps you are afraid of the 
noise disturbing Sir Ulick ?" said he. 

" No, please your honour," said the 
foremost man, " it will not disturb him 
—as well let the carriage come on — 
only," whispered he, "best to send the 
hack postillions with their horses, al- 

ORMOND. 327 

ways to the inn, afore they'd learn any- 

Ormond walked on quickly, and as 
soon as he was out of hearing of the 
postillions, again asked the men — 

" What news?— how is Sir Ulick .?" 

" Poor gentleman ! he has had a deal 
of trouble — and no help for him," said 
the man. 

" Better tell him plain," whispered 
the next. — " Master Harry, Sir Ulick 
O'Shane's trouble is over in this world, 

" Is he—" 

" Dead, he is, and cold, and in his 
coffin — this minute — and thanks be to 
God — if he is safe there even, — from 
them that are on the watch to seize on 
his body ! — In dread of them creditors, 
orders were given to keep the gates lock- 
ed. — He is dead since Tuesday, Sir, 
— but hardly one knows it out of the 
castle — except us." 

Ormond walked on silently, while they 

followed, talking at intervals. 

328 ORMOND. 

" There is a very great cry against 
him, Sir, I hear in Dublin, — and here in 
the country too," said one. 

" The distress they say is very great, 
he caused, but they might let his body 
rest any wiy— what good can that do 
them ?" 

" Bad or good, they sha'n't touch it," 
said the other — " by the blessing, we 
shall have him buried safe in the morn- 
ing, afore they are stirring. We shall 
carry the coffin through the under ground 
passage, that goes to the stables, and out 
by the lane to the churchyard easy — 
and the gentleman, the clergyman, has 
notice all will be ready, and the house- 
keeper only attending." 

" Oh ! the pitiful funeral," said the 
eldest of the men, " the pitiful funeral 
for Sir Uiick O'Shane, that was born to 

** Well, we can only do the best we 
can," said the other, " let what will hap- 
pen to ourselves; for Sir Marcus said he 

OilMOND. 3-29 

wouldn't take one of his father's notes 
from any of us." 

Ormond involuntarily felt for his purse. 

" Oh! don't be bothering the gentleman, 
don't be talking," said the old man. 
" This way, Master Harry, if you please, 
Sir, the under ground way to the back 
yard. We keep all close till after the 
burying, for fear — that was the house- 
keeper's order. Sent all off to Dublin 
when Sir Ulick took to his bed, and Lady 
Norton went off." 

Ormond refrained from asking any 
questions about his illness, fearing to in- 
quire into the manner of his death. He 
walked on more quickly and silently. — 
When they were going through the dark 
passage, one of the men, in a low voice* 
observed to Mr. Ormond, that the house- 
keeper would tell him all about it. 

When they got to the house, the house- 
keeper and Sir U lick's man appeared, 
seeming much surprised at the sight of 
Mr. Ormond. They said a great deal 

330 OSMOND. 

about the unfortunate event, and their 
own sorrow and distress — but Ormond 
saw that theirs were only the long faces, 
dismal tones, and outward shew of grief. 
They were just a common housekeeper 
and gentleman's gentleman, neither worse 
nor better than ordinary servants in a 
great house. Sir Ulick had treated them 
only as such. 

The housekeeper, without Ormond's 
asking a single question, went on to tell 
him, " That Castle Hermitage was as 
full of company, even to the last week, 
as ever it could hold, and all as grand as 
ever ; the first people in Ireland — cham- 
pagne and burgundy, and ices, and all 
as usual — and a ball that very week. Sir 
Ulick was very considerate, and sent 
Lady Norton off to her other friends ; he 
took ill suddenly that night with a 
great pain in his head;— he had been 
writing hard, and in great trouble, and 
he took to his bed, and never rose from 
it — he was found by Mr. Dempsey, his 

ORMOND. 331 

own man, dead in his bed in the morning, 
died of a broken heart to be sure ! — Poor 
gentleman ! — Some people in the neigh- 
bourhood was mighty busy talking how 
the coroner ought to be sent for, but that 
blew over, Sir. But then we were in 
dread of the seizure of the body for debt, 
so the gates was kept locked ; and now 
you know all we know about it, Sir." 

Ormond said he would attend the fune- 
ral. There was no attempt to seize upon 
the body : — only the three workmen, the 
servants, a very few of the cottagers, and 
Harry Ormond, attended to the grave the 
body of the once popular Sir Ulick 
O'Shane. This was considered by the 
country people as the greatest of all the 
misfortunes that had befallen him; the 
lowest degradation to which an O'Shane 
could be reduced. They compared him 
with king Corny, and " see the differ- 
ence," said they, " the one was the true 
thing, and never changed — and after all 
where is the great friends now ? — the 

332 ORMOND. 

quality that used to be entertaining at 
the castle above? Where is all the fa- 
vour promised him now ? What is it 
come to? See, with all his wit, and 
the schemes upon schemes, broke and 
gone, and forsook and forgot, and buried 
without a funeral, or a tear, but from 
Master Harry." 

Ormond was surprised to hear, in the 
midst of many of their popular super- 
stitions and prejudices, how justly they 
estimated Sir Ulick's abilities and cha- 

As the men filled up the grave, one of 
them said — 

" There lies the making of an excel- 
lent gentleman — but the cunning of his 
head spoiled the goodness of his heart." 

The day after the funeral, an agent 
came from Dublin to settle Sir Ulick 
O'Shane's affairs in the country. 

On opening his desk, the first thing 
that appeared was a bundle of accounts, 
and a letter, directed to H. Ormond, 

ORMOND. 333 

He took it to his own room, and read 

' Ormond, 
* I intended to employ your money to 
reestablish my falling credit, but I never 
intended to defraud you.' 

' Ulick O'Shane.' 




BOTH from a sense of justice to the 
poor people concerned, and from a 
desire to save Sir Ulick O'Shane's me- 
mory as far as it was in his power 
from reproach, Ormond determined to 
pay all the small debts that were due to 
his servants, workmen, and immediate 
dependants. For this purpose, when the 
funeral was over, he had them all assem- 
bled at Castle Hermitage. AH just 
demands of this sort were paid,— all 
were satisfied, even the bare-footed kit- 
chen maid, the drudge of this great 
house, who, in despair, had looked at her 
poor one guinea note of Sir Ulick's, had 
that note paid in gold, and went away 

ORMOND. 335 

blessing Master Harry. Happy for all 
that he is come home to us, was the 
general feeling. But there was one man, 
a groom of Sir Ulick's, who did not 
join in any of these blessings or praises; 
he stood silent and motionless, with his 
eyes on the money, which Mr. Ormond 
had put into his hand. 

" Is your money right ?" said Ormond. 

" It is, Sir, but I had something to tell 

When all the other servants had left 
the room, the man said — 

" I am the groom, Sir, that was sent, 
just before you went to France, with a 
letter to Annaly ; there was an answer 
to that letter, Sir, though you never got 

" There was an answer!" cried Or- 
mond, anger flashing, but an instant 
afterwards, joy sparkling in his eyes. 
" There was a letter ! — From whom ? 
— I'll forgive you all, if you will tell me 
the whole truth." 

336 ORMOND. 

" I will — and not a word of lie, and 
I beg- your honour's pardon, if — " 

" Go on — straight to the fact, this in- 
stant, or you shall never have my par- 

" Why then I stopped to take a glass 
coming home; and, not knowing how it 
was, I had the misfortune to lose the 
bit of a note, and I thought no more 
about it till, please your honour, after 
you was gone, it was found." 

*' Found!" cried Ormond, stepping 
hastily up to him, " Where is it?" 

" I have it safe here," said the man, 
opening a sort of pocket-book, «' here I 
have kept it safe till your honour came 

Ormond saw, and seized upon a letter, 
in Lady Annaly's hand, directed to him. 
Tore it open — two notes — one from Flo- 

" I forgive you !" said he to the man, 
and made a sign to him to leave the 

ORxMOND. 337 

When Ormond had read, or without 
reading-, had taken in by one glance of 
the eye, the sense of the letters— he rang 
the bell instantly. 

"Inquire at the post-office," said he 
to his servant, "whether Lady Annaly 
is in England or Ireland ?— if in Eng- 
land where ? — if in Ireland, whether at 
Annaly or at Herbert's Town? — Quick— 
an answer." 

An answer was quickly brought — 
" In England — in Devonshire, Sir, — 
here is the exact direction to the place, 
Sir, — I shall pack up — I suppose, Sir." 
" Certainly— directly." 
Leaving a few lines of explanation 
and affection for Dr. Cambray, our young 
hero was off again, to the surprise and 
regret of all who saw him driving 
away as fast as horses could carry him. 
— His servant, from the box, however, 
spread, as he went, for the comfort of the 
deploring village, the assurance that 
4< Master and he woirid soon be back 
vol. in. a 

338 ©RMOND. 

again — please Heaven ! — and — happier 
than ever." 

And now, that he is safe in the car- 
riage, what was in that note of Miss 
Annaly's which has produced such a 
sensation. No talismanic charm ever 
operated with more magical celerity than 
this note. What were the words of the 
charm ?^— 

That is a secret, which shall never be 
known to the world. 

The only point which it much imports 
the public to know, is probably already 
guessed — that the letter did not contain 
a refusal, nor any absolute discourage^ 
ment of Ormond's hopes. But Lady 
Annaly and Florence had both distinctly 
told him, that they could not receive 
liim at Annaly till after a particular day, 
xm which they said that they should be 
particularly engaged. They told him 
that Colonel Albemarle was at Annaly— 
that he would leave it at such a time — 
and that they requested that Mr. Or- 

ORMOND. 339 

mond would postpone his visit till after 
that time. 

Not receiving- this notice, Ormond had 
unfortunately gone upon the day that 
was specially prohibited. 

Now that the kneeling- figure appeared 
to him as a rival in despair, not in tri- 
umph, Ormond asked himself how he 
could ever have been such an ideot 
as to doubt Florence Annaly. 

" Why did I set off in such haste for 
Paris ? — Could not I have waited a day ? 
— Could not 1 have written again? — 
Could not I have cross-questioned the 
drunken servant when he was sober ? — 
Could not I have done any thing, in short, 
but what I did !" 

Clearlv as a man, when his angfer is 
•dissipated, sees what he ought to have 
done or to have left undone, while the 
fury lasted ; vividly as a man in a different 
kind of passion sees the folly of all he 
did, said, or thought, when he w as pos- 
sessed by the past madness j so clearly, 
Q 2 

340 ORMOND. 

so vividty, did Ormond now see and fee! 
— and vehemently execrate his jealous 
folly, and mad precipitation. — And then 
he came to the question — 

" Could his folly be repaired ? — Would 
his madness ever be forgiven ?" Ormond, 
in love affairs, never had any presumption 
— any tinge of the Connal coxcombry in 
his nature ; he was not apt to flatter 
himself, that he had made a deep impres- 
sion; and now he was, perhaps from his 
sense of the superior value of the object, 
more than usually diffident. With every 
changing view of the subject, he dis- 
covered fresh cause to fear that he might 
lose, or that he might have already for- 
feited, the prize. Though Miss Annaly is 
still unmarried, she might have resolved 
irrevocably against him. — Though she 
was not a girl to act in the high-flown 
heroine style ; and, in a fit of pride or 
revenge, to punish the man she liked, by 
marrying his rival, whom she did not 
like ; yet Florence Annaly, as Ormond 

ORMOND. 341 

well knew, inherited some of her mother's 
strength of character ; and, in circum- 
stances that deeply touched her heart, 
might be capable of all her mother's 
warmth of indignation. It was in her 
character decidedlv to refuse to connect 
herself with any man, however her heart 
might incline towards him, if he had any 
essential defect of temper; or, if she 
thought that his attachment to her was 
not steady and strong ; in short, such as 
she deserved it should be, and such as 
her sensibility and all her hopes of do- 
mestic happiness required in a husband. 
And then there was Lady Annaly to be 
considered — how indignant she would be 
at his conduct. 

While Ormond was travelling alone, 
he had full leisure to torment himself 
with these thoughts. Pressed forward 
alternately by hope and fear, each urging 

expedition, he hastened on reached 

Dublin — crossed the water — and travell- 
ing day and night, neither stilted nor 

342 ORMOND. 

stayed till he was at the feet of his fair 

To those who like to know the how — 
tfce when — and the where, it should be 
told that it was evening- when he arrived 
— Florence Annaly was walking with 
her mother by the sea-side, in one of the 
most beautiful and retired parts of the 
coast of Devonshire, when they were told- 
by a servant, that a gentleman from Ire- 
land had just arrived at their house,, and 
wished to see them. A minute afterwards 
they saw — 

"Could it be?" Lady Annaly said, 
turning- in doubt to her daughter, but the 
cheek of Florence instantly convinced 
the mother, that it could be none but Mr. 
Ormond himself. 

" Mr. Ormond !" said Lady Annaly, 
advancing kindly, yet with some mixture 
of dignified reserve in her manner, *' Mr. 
Ormond, after his long absence, is wel- 
come to his old friend." 

There was in Onnond's look and man- 

ORMOND. 343 

ner, as he approached, something that 
much inclined the daughter to hope that 
he might prove not utterly unworthy of 
her mother's forgiveness ; and, when he 
spoke to the daughter, there was, in his 
voice and look, something- that softened 
the mother's heart; irresistibly inclined 
her to wish, that he might be able to give 
a satisfactory explanation of his strange 
conduct. Where the parties are thus 
happily disposed both to hear reason — 
to excuse passion— and to pardon the 
errors to which passion, even in the most 
reasonable minds, is liable ; explanations 
are seldom tedious, or difficult to be com- 
prehended. The moment Orraond pro* 
duced the cover, the soiled cover of the 
letters, a glimpse of the truth struck 
Florence Annaly j and before he had got 
further in his sentence than these words : 

*' I did not receive your ladyship's 
letter till within these few days." 

All the reserve of Lady Annaly 's man- 
ner was dispelled: her smiles relieved 

3t4 ORMOND. 

iiis apprehensions, and encouraged him 
to proceed in his story with happy 
fluency. The carelessness of the drunk- 
en servant, who had occasioned so much 
mischief, was talked of for a few minutes 
with great satisfaction. 

Ormond took his own share of the 
blame so frankly, and with so good a 
grace, and described, with such truth, 
the agony he had been thrown into by 
the sight of the kneeling figure in regi- 
mentals, that Lady Annaly could not 
help comforting him by the assurance 
that Florence had, at the same moment, 
been sufficiently alarmed by the rearing 
of his horse at the sight of the flapping 
window blind. 

" The kneeling gentleman," said Lady 
Annaly, " whom you thought at the 
height of joy and glory, was at that 
moment in the depths of despair. So ill 
do the passions see what is even before 
fheir eyes!" 

If Lady Anualy had had a mind to 

ORMOND. 645 

moralise at this moment, she might ha\e 
done so to any length, without fear of in- 
terruption from either of her auditors, 
and with the most perfect certainty of 
unqualified submission and dignified hu- 
mility on the part of our hero, who was 
too happy at this moment not to be ready 
to acknowledge himself to have been 
wrong and absurd ; and worthy of any 
quantity of reprehension or indignation, 
that could have been bestowed upon 


Her ladyship went, however, as far 
from morality as possible — to Paris. — 
She spoke of the success Mr. Ormond had 
had in Parisian society, — she spoke of 
M. and Madame de Connal, and various 
persons with whom he had been intimate, 
among others, of the abbe Morellet. 

Ormond rejoiced to find that Lady 
Annaly knew he had been in the Abbe 
Morellet's distinguished society. The 
happiest hopes for the future rose in his 
mind, from perceiving that herladyship. 

340 OSMOND". 

by whatever means, knew all that he 
had been doing in Paris. It seems that 
they had had accounts of him from 
several English travellers, who had met 
him. at Paris, and had heard him spoken 
of in different companies, 

Ormond took care — give him credit 
for it all who have ever been in love — 
even in these first moments, with the ob- 
ject of his present affection, Ormond took 
care to do justice to the absent Dora, 
whom be now never expected to. see 
again. — He seized, dexterously, an op- 
portunity, in reply to something Lady 
Annaly said about the Gonnals, to ob- 
serve, that Madame de Connal was not 
only much admired for her beauty at 
Paris, but that she did honour to Ireland 
by having preserved her reputation; 
young, and without a guide, as she was, 
in dissipated French society, with few 
examples of conjugal virtues to preserve 
in her mind the precepts and habits of 
her British education. 

ORMOND. 347 

Ormond was glad of this opportunity 
to give, as he now did with all the 
energy of truth, the result of his feelings 
and reflections on what he had seen of 
French modes of living; their superior 
pleasures of society ; and their want of 
our domestic happiness. 

While Ormond was speaking-, both the 
mother and daughter could not help ad- 
miring, in the midst of his moralizing, 
the great improvement which had been 
made in his appearance and manners* 

With all bis own characteristic frank- 
ness, he acknowledged the impression 
which French gaiety, and the brilliancy 
of Parisian society, had, at first, made 
upon him : — he was glad, however, that 
he had now seen all that the imagination 
often paints as far more delightful than 
it really is.— He had, thank Heaven^ 
passed through this course of dissipation, 
without losing his taste for better and 
happier modes of life. The last few 
months, though they might seem but a 

348 ORMOND. 

splendid or feverish dream in his exist- 
ence, had in reality been, he believed, 
of essential service in confirming his prin- 
ciples, settling his character, and de- 
ciding- for ever his taste and judgment, 
after full opportunity of comparison, in 
favour of his own country — and espe- 
cially of his own country women. 

Lady Annaly smiled benignantlyj and 
after observing, that this seemingly un- 
lucky excursion, which had begun in 
anger, had ended advantageously to Mr. 
Ormond ; and after having congratulated 
him upon having saved his fortune, and 
established his character solidly, she left 
him to plead his own cause with her 
daughter — in her heart cordially wishing 
him success. 

What he said, or what Florence 
answered, we do not know j but we are 
perfectly sure that if we did, the repetition 
of it would tire the reader. Lady An- 
naly and tea waited for them with great 
patience to an unusually late, which 

ORMOND. 349 

they conceived to be an unusually early 
hour. The result of this conversation 
was, that Ormond remained with them 
in this beautiful retirement in Devon- 
shire, the next day, and the next, and — 
how many days are not precisely record- 
ed; a blank was left for the number, 
which the editor of these memoirs does 
not dare to fill up at random, lest some 
Mrs. M'Crule should exclaim—" Scan* 
dalously too long to keep the young" man 
there ! — or scandalously too short a court- 
ship after all !" 

It is humbly requested, that every 
young lady of delicacy and feeling will 
put herself in the place of Florence Au- 
na ly — then, imagining the man she most 
approves to be in the place of Mr. 
Ormond, she will be pleased to fill up 
the blank with what number of days 
she may think proper. 

When the happy day was named, it 
was agreed they should return to Ire- 
land, to Annaly ; and that their kind 

350 ORMOND. 

friend, Dr. Carnbray, should be the per- 
son to complete that union, which he 
had so long- foreseen, and so anxiously 

Those who wish to hear something 
of estates, as well as of weddings, should 
be told, that about the same time 
Ormond received letters from Marcus 
O'Shane, and from M. de Connal. — 
Marcus informing him, that the estate 
of Castle Hermitage was to be sold by 
the commissioners of bankrupts, and be- 
seeching- him to bid for it, that it might 
not be sold under value. — M. de Connal 
also besought his dear friend, Mr. Or- 
mond, to take the Black Islands off his 
hands, for they incumbered him terribly. 
No wonder, living 1 , as he did, at Paris, 
with his head at Versailles, and his heart 
in a faro bank. Ormond could not 
oblige both the gentlemen, though they 
had each pressing reasons for getting 
rid speedily of their property ; and were 
assured, that he would be the most 

ORMOND. g 5l 

agreeable purchaser. Castle Hermitao-e 
was the finest estate, and by far the 
best bargain.— But other considerations 
weighed with our hero. Whde Sir 
Ulick O'Shane's son and natural repre- 
sentative was living, banished bv debts 
from his native country, Ormond could 
not bear to take possession of Castle 
Hermitage. For the Black Islands he 
had a fondness— they were associated 
with all the tender recollections of his 
generous benefactor. — He should hurt 
no one's feelings by this purchase — and 
he might do a great deal of good, by 
-carrying on his old friend's improve- 
ments, and by further civilizing the 
people of the Islands, all of whom were 
warmly attached to him. They con- 
sidered prince Harry as the lawful re- 
presentative of their dear king Corny, 
and actually offered up prayers for his 
coming again to reign over them. 

To those who think that the mind is 
a kingdom of yet more consequence than 


even that of the Black Islands, it may 
be agreeable to hear, that Ormond con- 
tinued to enjoy the empire which he 
had gained over himself, and to main- 
tain that high character, which in spite 
of his neglected education, and of all 
the adverse circumstances to which he 
was early exposed, he had formed for 
himself by resolute energy. 

Lady Annaly, with the pride of af- 
fection, gloried in the full accomplish- 
ment of her prophecies, and was re- 
warded in the best manner for that 
benevolent interest she had early taken 
in our hero's improvement, by seeing 
the perfect felicity which subsisted be- 
tween her daughter and Ormond. 


H. E'jtr, Printer, Bridge street, Blaclifriars, 1,o\j.